


Thirty Seconds

by leo_lullaby



Category: Captain America (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Also mention of CATWS, Badass!Bucky, Brief spoliers up to S10 of SPN, Caring!Dean, Caring!Sam, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, He doesn't last long don't worry, He is just there to move the plot along, Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Male Hunter OC, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, hurt!bucky, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4343273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_lullaby/pseuds/leo_lullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has been brainwashed as a weapon too many times to forget the rules. Don't act until instructed. Don't take prisoners unless told. Don't question or fight authority... The list goes on.<br/>But above all else, never let your charge get harmed during a mission.</p><p>Final (Sixth) chapter now up!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thirty Seconds

Steve was off on one of his missions with the team. Bucky was still not quite comfortable with accompanying him although he has been invited. It is not that he does not feel physically capable but rather…

Some of the others and him didn’t…

…get along too well.

Bucky was perfectly fine with staying in their shared apartment in New York, but of course Steve did not want him by himself for a week. Or even in a place where he could potentially be tracked. Bucky argues he was fine.

So naturally Steve went behind his back to call the brothers who were passing by to pick him up. Bucky did not know about this until the two Winchesters were taking up the doorway with their tall presences. Steve said it was a surprise, and also because if he had given his friend the heads-up then he knows Bucky would have fought his way out of it.

That is how Bucky ended up with the Winchesters in some motel. It was getting late at night and the brothers wanted a night off of work, or “hunting” as Bucky has learned it is called, and Dean brings up his favorite pastime of bar drinking.

Bucky hates bars. Correction, he hates the crowds, and when they are infused with alcohol it is just that much worse. But the former soldier has always had it engrained in him to never back down from a challenge.

Dean really did know how to pull his strings sometimes. Bucky rolls his eyes and fidgets to pull his sleeve down lower over his left hand.

“I was taken and trained by Russians, Dean. Even if I didn’t have the serum and other advancements in me, I would still know how to hold my liquor.” Bucky tilts the corner of his mouth up in a low smirk.

Dean raises an eyebrow at the former soldier and gives a slight nod of approval and challenge.

“Well alright then, tin man. Put your liquor where your mouth is.”

 

* * *

 

Sam elbows the side door open with his mostly free arm. Dean’s arm around his neck is rough from the worn fabric of his jacket and barely provides a barrier to the raging heat of his skin. His brother sways slightly with each step. Slurred, off-key Metallica reaches Sam’s ear and he can’t help but laugh.

“He’s heavier than he looks isn’t he?” Sam asks across the drunken form of his brother to Bucky who has the man’s other arm draped over his shoulders.

Bucky looks over at him with a genuine smile that makes his deep blue eyes glimmer slightly and crinkle at the corners. He has to stand a little taller to match the height of the two brothers but his grip on Dean is strong.

“I’ve carried Steve before, this is nothing,” Bucky replies with a chuckle.

Sam barks out a laugh in response and hikes Dean’s arm tighter around him. The two of them carefully maneuver him out of the bar and resituate in order to walk the alleyway back to the Impala parked out front.

“I’ve got to say, I am pretty impressed.” Sam says with a grunt as he repositions his practically sleeping brother. “You don’t seem the slightest bit drunk. Maybe happily buzzed, but with what you downed I must say I am amazed.”

Bucky smiles wider and holds Dean’s arm as the muscles sway and loosen. Sam’s right, he can feel the alcohol flooding his system and warming him from the inside out. It is not as much of a relief as it was back… when he was younger, but it is something. Every possible sensory intake is not overloading his brain. His stomach is a soothing furnace that helps to dim the rough edges clawing at his mind.

He feels… happy. Dare he say it, he even had _fun?_

“Winchester, as I live and breathe,” The rough and unfamiliar voice sends a cold rush through Bucky’s veins.

He feels Sam freeze and silently does the same, held back by Dean linking the two of them together. He glances sideways at Sam’s stony face and wide eyes. The nervous friction discharges from the taller man and fuels Bucky’s waiting muscles, switching his brain back into awareness. Bucky can see the visual tensing of Sam’s muscles, making whoever this voice belongs to some kind of danger to him and potentially all three of them. Which Winchester is the man talking about, both?

Bucky picks up four more sets of footprints, giving him a quick estimate of each of the men’s (unless a woman decided to wear thick boots and weighs over 250 pounds) weights and heights, as well as the distinct sound of fabric shifting against metal that he has come to recognize as concealed weapons. Each of them is likely armed by the sound. His eyes flicker over the resulting shadows thrown down the pavement in front of them as the other men are backlit by the warm light from the open bar door as the group files out.

They are not quiet and organized, they want to be heard. He can smell the whisky on them from here, although Dean’s mouth a few inches from him could likely be throwing the reading off, but it is not enough to make them slow. It is just enough to set them off.

These men are threats.

“Is your brother still dealing with the devil? Last I heard he was sporting a lovely pair of shark’s eyes.” The voice is closer and Bucky can now pick up the slight drawl in the man’s tone.

It is not obvious, but it is there and shows the man’s character, it reminds him painfully of the two brothers beside him. These men must be trained like the brothers who have taken him in. But he can sense the angry and worried tension rolling in waves off of Sam.

These men are threats.

“Sam, kill or disable?” Bucky asks in a quiet murmur.

Sam stops when he hears the hunter’s voice. He is sure it must be another one he has talked to for information or help when he and Dean have rolled through town before. Any name escapes him; all of the hunters in this area seem to roll together nowadays. He can never trust any of them regardless. His reputation paired with Dean’s often precedes any chance for conversation. The comment about Dean’s eyes makes his throat catch. Obviously these men are behind on the times, but that does not give them any less reason to act. He hopes Bucky does not hesitate after hearing the choice of words. Bucky’s question makes him freeze again for an entirely different reason.

 _What_ is the other man asking?

“You know our job is to protect this town, especially from any demon activity.” The man’s alcohol-burned, smoke-torn voice makes Sam cringe slightly and the sound of guns being loaded makes his heart skip a beat.

Bucky sees the wince in Sam’s eyes and the worry as the man tries to formulate a plan. Bucky holds Dean tighter to his side, hearing the blatant threats and subtly trying to shift so he is blocking the drunken brother.

“Sam?” He urges quietly.

Sam suddenly unhooks Dean’s arm from his neck and turns to face the five men. They are all hunters, just as he had expected, and seeing a face makes him feel a little more in control. Bucky shifts to take all of Dean’s weight while turning to the side to make his body a shield.

“Wes.” Sam grits the name out in anger.

The hunter, who Bucky assumes must have some kind of power since he is the one doing all of the talking, is taller than himself but not Sam. He is wider than the both of them. He has slight facial hair and dead gray eyes that strike a faint nerve of discomfort deep in his stomach. This man has killed before, and he has not been remorseful about it.

“Sammy Winchester, _my_ it has been a while. But word through the grapevine is you are harboring a fugitive. And holding a deer during hunting season don’t stop it from being fair game in our world. Ain’t that right, Sammy Boy?” He gives a grin that is happy only in the way Bucky has seen in these kinds of men.

It is predatory and knowing, taunting and playful, dead and chiding.

Like a shark.

Sam swallows nervously and quickly eyes all of the guns pointed in the direction of him and his brother. He knows that even if he told the truth, they would not change their minds. They have only one goal here tonight.

“Sam,” Bucky urges in a low voice as he shifts Dean to have the man leaning on his shoulder, the opposing metal arm hidden under fabric providing a strong barrier between his body and Dean’s.

Sam’s heart thuds anxiously as he raises his hands in a placating gesture towards the hunters. His eyes flicker sideways at Bucky’s hushed prodding. His brain spins slightly as he tries to keep the situation under control.

“Look Wes, we aren’t here for any trouble, alright?” Sam tries again for the pacifying route but a deep fear in his gut rumbles through his body.

They are grossly outnumbered and outgunned and Sam knows not all hunters play fair, especially when they think a demon is involved. He shifts his body to step forward from his brother and friend to keep attention on him. Wes’ deadened eyes narrow slightly and his mouth curls into an amused smirk. He handles the pistol in his hands with a loving gesture. Bucky can see the man feeding off of the brute strength and confidence the rest of his posse is feeding from behind him. Bucky can barely feel Dean’s weight against his side now as the man leans against him, obviously sensing the distress in his brother. Wes’ predatory eyes slide to Bucky standing strongly a few feet to the side of Sam.

Sam sees Wes’ focus shift as he seeks out Dean and his stomach drops when he recognizes the hunter must finally have spotted Bucky for the first time. Sam shifts anxiously and swallows the lump in his throat. His arms lower slightly as he realizes he has lost Wes’ attention.

“Who’s your new boy toy? Did you pick him up from down under too?” Wes smiles slyly and shifts his hand to mark his shot between Bucky’s normally light blue eyes darkened with intensity.

Sam tries to take another step but Wes’ eyes follow him as two of the other hunters simultaneously mark him. He tsks and keeps his strong mark on Bucky.

“Stay there Sammy boy, your friend and I are having a chat.” He flashes his teeth as he grins darkly and his eyes travel back to Bucky.

Bucky’s grip on Dean is tight as he feels the man beginning to stir against him. His back is straight as he tries to appear taller and the metal of his arm smoothly shifts as his hand twitches anxiously. He feels the anger shooting up his spine and forces himself to swallow it back down.

“Sam,” Bucky repeats the name with cold questioning and his eyes do not fail to stare Wes down.

Sam steals a glance at Bucky beside him, taking in the man’s tense posture and deadened face. His eyebrows furrow slightly as he tries to understand what Bucky is asking for. He is about to speak when Wes interrupts loudly.

“Oh he’s so obedient, Sammy boy. Where’d you get him?”

Sam feels a new rush of fear and anger rush through him. He takes a step forward, aware of the weapons trained on him, and watches Wes seriously.

“You have no business with him, Wes. Just get out of here.”

Wes throws his head back and bellows out a deep laugh, his mark never wavering from Bucky. He continues his strong gaze on Bucky as he addresses Sam.

“Well,” His eyes flicker to the younger brother, “That is assuming you three are going to get out of here.”

“Sam, thirty seconds, that’s all I need,” Bucky speaks in a murderous whisper without breaking eye contact.

He feels Dean squeeze his arm slightly in recognition and swallows down the burning temptation in his taut muscles.

“No one needs to die tonight, alright?” Sam suddenly exclaims, looking between Wes and Bucky as he steps forward.

Wes laughs again, a deep and taunting sound and shifts to mark Bucky seriously. His eyes flicker to Dean rousing behind the other man and the predatory grin spreads on his face once more.

“Can you stand on your own?” Bucky asks, his voice barely audible, to Dean next to him.

Dean slowly shifts to his feet and Bucky compensates, not breaking his lethal stare. Sam takes another step, trying to draw the attention away from the other two men.

“Princess is awake,” Wes mutters with a hiss.

Bucky sees the gun shift and immediately steps forward as the shot rings out. The bullet buries itself deep into his shoulder and he grunts in response. The impact forces him backwards and he reaches back to Dean with his free metal arm to steady both of them. Bucky’s jaw is clenched shut and he breathes viciously through his nose. Sam stares in horror at Bucky’s tense form, seemingly unaffected by the bullet, ready to spring. He sees Bucky hiss his name once more, his eyes not leaving Wes in front of him.

Wes swears loudly at Bucky and settles his aim again. At hearing his name, Sam’s brain snaps back into action and he raises his hands in defense.

“Wes, listen, there are no demons here! Just let us go and you will never see us-” A warning shot from one of the other men fires and skims his bicep, making him recoil and step back.

“Sam!” Bucky calls out in fuming worry.

The former soldier makes a jerking step forward, his brain urging him to go. His shoulder burns but he can barely feel it. The heat sets his nerves on fire and his muscles beg him to move. He is hyperaware of Dean’s presence behind him and the blood rushing hot and angry trough his veins.

Wes chuckles once, an ugly sound from deep in his throat, and shakes his head at Bucky in wonder.

“You are something else, you know that?” His large, sly, and predatory grin fits his mouth once more and morphs into a snarl. “But step aside or I will make you.”

He steps forward and the other four men follow, beginning to fan out and mark the three of them. The muscle in Bucky’s jaw jumps as his eyes quickly scan over all of the men, taking in strengths, weaknesses, angles, weapons.

“Sam, you have to tell me. Talk to me, Sam. _Sam.”_ Bucky’s muscles are practically vibrating.

His eyes track the hunters and he swears under his breath but lunges without looking to grab the other brother by his uninjured arm to shield them both with his body. Another shot rings out and his hip stings. The fast movement of the other men and shouting from Wes sends his heartrate up and he forces himself to exhale slowly. He feels both of his arms wrapped back around and each protecting a brother. Their shifting behind his back and the click of metal alerts him they are both armed now.

The mental ticking clock in the back of his head tells him it has been three seconds. The other men are rushing forward now and he can see all of their guns aimed and ready. Wes’ eyes are dead and furious.

Bucky forces another breath into his lungs.

“Give ‘em hell.” Dean suddenly mutters in his ear.

Bucky exhales silently and his body feels like a mousetrap that can finally spring.

His hands release the brothers and he lunges forward, eyes cold and calculating. Some of the men are faster than others, and that difference in reaction time is all he needs. The gunshots fire out and he shifts to the side, throwing his forearm against the man’s outstretched arm to throw his aim into the ground. Other shots from the Winchesters behind him make him silently plead that they find some sort of cover.

The sound of their footsteps scuffling to the side puts him to ease as he roughly grips the man’s head in front of him and throws it against the brick wall. The man crumples to the ground and Bucky grabs the pistol, shooting out one of the other hunters’ knees as he moves.

Seven seconds.

As he jumps forward and kicks another man in the stomach and delivers a silencing elbow to the back of his head, he feels hands wrap around him from behind. The trapping arms are thick and leave an unexpected sting in the side of his chest. Bucky throws his head back, hearing the satisfying crunch of the man’s nose, before shifting his momentum sideways and throwing the man against the wall to let gravity do the rest and bring him to the ground.

Eleven seconds.

Bucky hisses out another controlled breath, feeling the hot tension coursing through his body. Some of his muscles snag in his otherwise fluid movements and he grits his teeth to force his body to work with him. He barely ducks to miss another shot from Wes and kicks the man’s legs out from under him.

Twenty seconds.

His strong, metal arm quickly grabs the man’s neck as the other twists his wrist with a pop. The clank of the pistol on the pavement reaches his ears and he fluidly kicks the weapon farther away as he pushes forward and traps Wes against the brick side of the alleyway.

Twenty-three seconds.

His inhuman grip forces the air from Wes’ lungs as he increases pressure. The man’s face is red and his automatic gagging noises are the only thing Bucky can hear in the now silent alleyway. Bucky’s teeth grit together in anger as he watches Wes’ face frantically change from smug to afraid. The man’s hands claw uselessly at Bucky’s arm, pulling at the fabric there desperately. Wes lets out a chocked exclamation of surprise as he comes into contact with the cold metal of Bucky’s arm. His strained eyes are desperate and questioning as Bucky’s grip increases further.

The sound of two pairs of footsteps registers above the rushing blood in his ears. A gentle hand on his free but injured shoulder makes him flinch. Bucky grits his teeth and exhales in almost a snarl as he grabs Wes even tighter, feeling the metal plates of his arm shifting to compensate. The man’s eyes start to roll and his pawing hands fall weakly to his sides.

“Bucky,” A familiar voice makes his head throb.

The pulse registering under his fingers is slowing and his muscles shake in familiar longing.

“Bucky, stop.”

The world stops. The command flips a switch in his brain.

The cold air from the night rushes back into his system and he inhales sharply. Bucky recoils from Wes as if burned and stumbles back a few steps. He blinks frantically and flinches at the gentle but firm hand on his arm. Wes’ gasping tears at his ears already filled with the loud drumming of his own heartbeat.

The various smells rush into his nose and make him dizzy: the crisp night, warm alcoholic bar, worn leather, smoke from weapons discharge, and… blood.

The rustic smell makes him cough and he tries to step away once more. The air catches in his throat and he tries to cough again. Sam, that is who is holding him. Bucky didn’t realize he was shaking until the man’s arm tries to steady him. Sam was shot. He is bleeding. Bucky can smell it.

He let Sam get shot.

Bucky’s eyes flutter and he forces them to take in his surroundings. It is still dark from the night but the light from the bar provides enough. The four men are all on the ground, some moaning slightly. Wes is doubled over, leaning on the wall for support, with his other hand on his throat. The skin there is already bruising and Bucky’s fingers twitch in sympathy. Dean is standing in front of the other hunter, tall on his feet and not one suggestion of his previously drunken state in his stance. He has his gun in his hand and is talking to Wes in a voice that is so deep and angry that it makes Bucky wince.

Sam is facing the two men with his free hand holding Bucky’s arm protectively. His injured arm is hanging by his side and Bucky is already analyzing the man’s wound. It is a skim, meaning there is no bullet to worry about, but a large patch of skin has been shot off. The wound still bleeds strongly, as Bucky would expect with any flesh wound close to important veins and arteries, but it is nothing extreme. He could fix it with a few stitches. Bucky feels himself sigh with slight relief, a ragged and uncomfortable action.

He wants to cough. It is a startling sensation that he forces down. His tongue is bitter and his throat is scratchy. Sam is standing strong and confidently enough that the amount of blood Bucky smells and tastes makes him wonder if he missed something and let the other man get hit again in the firefight.

His ears pick up Dean’s harsh threats and Wes’ frantic coughing and ragged swears. “…better watch your back, Winchester. You and your new pet-” Dean’s kick to the man’s stomach makes Wes grunt and fall to his knees, quietly moaning and continuing to swear. It must be over.

Bucky swallows and tastes rust. He twitches nervously as Dean turns around to the two of them, his face murderous. He tries to recoil from the man’s authoritative and threatening gaze, but Sam’s touch stops him. His arm jolts in reaction to Sam’s hand and he can smell more blood.

Dean’s face instantly drops and he rushes forward, hesitantly reaching out to Bucky. He watches in confusion as Dean’s piercing eyes rake over his body and his mouth grimaces in sympathy. Bucky reaches out shakily and grabs Dean’s shoulder, the heat of his skin odd against his cold hand.

“Are you alright?” Bucky asks seriously, quickly scanning the other man’s face for discomfort.

Dean surprisingly does not grimace or try to hide it, but instead looks at him with sympathy and bewilderment. He scoffs once and looks to Sam who returns the same confused look.

“I’m fine, Buck, thanks to you. Now let’s get you out of here.” Dean looks to Sam once more and adds under his breath, “There’s no way we could take him in, but we could stop by a hospital real quick and I can grab…” Bucky’s ears deafen out and his mind reels, feeling sluggish, as he stumbles back a few steps.

Go to the hospital? He frantically looks over Sam and Dean, his analytical eyes taking in all of their features. He can find no problems besides the skim on Sam’s upper arm and a bruise on the side of Dean’s jaw.

But they need a _hospital?_

Did Dean lie to him? He didn’t sense any trace in the man’s face or voice. He looks to Sam in fear. The two brothers look at him in cautious worry.

“Where else are you hit?” Bucky asks Sam carefully, waiting for his response to analyze his face.

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up and he shakes his head frantically. He steps forward and holds Bucky upright. He didn’t realize he was beginning to list weakly to the side as his hip spasms and fails for a second before struggling to hold him vertical. There is more blood, he can smell it.

“Bucky, we need to get you back and get that thing out of your ribs man,” Sam’s voice is buzzing over the rush in his ears and he feels Dean’s hands grab his shoulders as well.

His eyes flicker down to see the knife hilt sticking from the side of his chest. Bucky forces himself to breathe and he coughs once automatically. The taste on his tongue is hot and bitter. His eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head once. The weapon in his torso seems to warp and bend as he sways slightly on his feet. He takes a weak step to try and balance and jumps when Dean grabs him gently. He looks up to the oldest Winchester, feeling invalid as the rushing of blood and pounding of his heart overwhelms his senses.

Dean looks over at Sam and hands him what Bucky’s ears faintly pick up from the jingling to be car keys. Sam nods and quickly jogs down the alleyway towards the front of the bar. Dean watches his brother go silently and then turns back to Bucky, his bright green eyes intense and focused.

“We will get you all patched up, alright?” His tone is gentle and supportive and it makes Bucky’s head spin.

Dean gently winds an arm around Bucky’s waist to take his weight on his uninjured side, silently urging Bucky to relax into his strong frame. Bucky’s mind suddenly clicks and he jerks his uninjured arm back from where Dean was beginning to slide it over his shoulder. Bucky stumbles back a few steps until his shoulder blades hit the wall. The impact is a low thud throughout his body and reverberates through all of his muscles. Three wounds, all bleeding, and now they sting, and he has to get the Winchesters out of here.

Left hip, right shoulder, ribcage on the right, all of them bleeding too fast, the hospital was for him, _is_ for him dammit he can’t let up now, they aren’t safe, Steve left him here knowing that he could help keep these brothers safe and now Sam is _shot_ and-

“Bucky, hey man, calm down, its fine. Sam just went to go get the car and then we will help you out, alight?” Dean’s hand on his arm makes him meet the other man’s strong gaze.

Bucky shudders in another shaking breath and swallows compulsively. He grimaces slightly at the tinge of thick copper on his tongue. The sincere worry in Dean’s eyes makes his muscles quiver and he nods once.

“We… We need to get back.” Bucky agrees in a weak voice and pushes up from the wall.

He clears his throat, feeling the blood rush up in his mouth and coat the inside of his lips. He runs the back of his hand over his mouth, ignoring the stinging in his shoulder. He quickly glances at the red staining his skin before wiping it away on the fabric of his jeans. He turns away from Dean and takes a few shaking steps forward. He focuses his gaze on the end of the alleyway, ignoring Dean’s concerned gaze.

Dean watches in stunned confusion as the other man picks himself up off the wall and steps. The last few minutes blur in his mind and he blames the remnants of alcohol in his system. Bucky’s icy blue eyes are focused but Dean can see his pupils dilating desperately as the rest of his body falls into shock and blood loss. When Bucky’s step shifts to the left his leg hits awkwardly and his stance lurches from the obvious pain his hip joint is causing him. The limp shakes Dean from his dizzying reprieve and he rushes to the other man. His hand returns to Bucky’s uninjured metal arm, the surface smooth and cold beneath the fabric of the jacket.

“Bucky, take it easy man, you took some hard hits.” Dean puts on the best “big brother” voice he can to try and get his friend out of this daze.

Bucky hesitates, his fogging blue eyes slipping to Dean and then back to the end of the alleyway.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you two to have to… to…” Bucky’s tongue trips over syllables and slurs slightly as he stumbles forward, his hip not complying.

He tries to blink away the fog over his eyes and relaxes slightly when he sees Sam pull up the Impala to the end of the alleyway and jump out of the driver’s seat. He staggers to a halt when Dean shakes his metal arm again meaningfully.

“Buck, you’re freaking me out, stop and listen to me for a second.” His voice has switched to hold that air of authority again that makes Bucky quiver slightly and look to the taller man without question.

“Can’t… stop… let’s go.” Bucky mumbles, fighting to keep his eyes open as he takes another step.

He barely hears Dean suddenly move to catch him as his hip gives out and he lurches weakly to the side. He can smell the alcohol and gunpowder on Dean’s skin and hear the man’s rushed talking in his ear. His arms are wrapped tightly around Bucky and shift the blade in his chest, making him wince and have to bite back a cry.

Bucky tries to get his feet underneath him but his muscles are rubbery and uncooperative. He exhales bluntly and forces his eyes to open again, unaware they had closed. Air trips over his throat and into his strained lungs. A second pair of hands makes him automatically try to get away until the familiar cadence and vibrations of Sam’s voice reaches his ears and settles in his chest.

Both of them are muttering reassuringly to him and he tries to swallow down the acid and rust in his throat. The brothers shift to loop his arms around their shoulders and Bucky unwillingly releases a clipped cry of pain. He bites his tongue against the noise and parts his lips to force air in, pushing rough and broken apologies out. He blinks heavily against the shadows in the corners of his vision and the rising feeling of mindless smoke threatening to overtake his body.

“Bucky, it’s fine, just let us get you back.” Sam tries to reassure the fading man next to him and hoists him up farther on his uninjured arm.

He looks nervously to Dean and they nod silently to one another. Sam hears the man mumbling slightly and pauses when they reach the Impala to allow Dean to grab the car door and open it. He leans in closer to Bucky’s lips shaking slightly and twitching every few seconds. Red stains the corner of the former soldier’s mouth as he struggles for air. Sam’s blood feels cold when he finally realizes what his friend is saying as he slips into unconsciousness.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry… don’t wipe me, not now…”


	2. Afraid for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness thanks for the feedback this is doing better than expected. I am hoping to keep going! Poor Bucky man I love to beat him up.

When his feet hit the ground again his eyes flash open. Dean has his uninjured arm looped over his shoulders and Sam walks ahead of them, an unfamiliar black tote bag over his unharmed arm. Bucky gives a small gasp of surprise in the sudden scenery change and mind-numbing sensations before quickly composing himself. He feels Dean tense under him in response.

Fingers against his jugular vein cause his arm to flash and grab the attached wrist. His shoulder burns and snags like an old hinge at the sudden movement but his senses are too stimulated for him to care. A soothing voice floats above the thick, beating thrum of his heart coursing quickly in his chest.

Dean watches Bucky’s wide eyes seriously, feeling the man’s pulse hammering beneath his fingertips. It surprises him how strong the man’s grip is. He sees the resulting wince in the over-analytic blue gaze and tries to step into his line of vision directly.

“Bucky we are back at the motel, alright? Just a few more minutes and we will get you all patched up. Just breathe for me buddy.” Dean searches Bucky’s wide eyes, looking for some sense of recognition.

He finds none as Bucky’s breath hisses sharply through his nose and his mouth pulls sideways into a pained grimace. His fingers are pulled away from the man’s neck and his wrist stings as Bucky grips it tighter. The trained hold shifts and Dean automatically recoils in pain, letting out a cry of hurt.

The sound spikes through Bucky’s head and he blinks rapidly. He releases Dean as quickly as he grabbed him, also pushing the man away forcefully but careful not to hurt him. Bucky crashes backwards into one of the still opened doors of the Impala, slamming it shut as he collapses back against it. The air rushes from his tight lungs and he feels his legs quiver and threaten to drop him to the pavement. He scrambles for purchase on the side of the car but winces at the sound of metal on metal and forces his offending hands in front of him.

A pair of rough and worn hands grabs his bent elbows and supports him strongly, also shaking him to get his attention. His chest heaves for air and he blinks away the crowding fuzz to focus on the man in front of him. Dean holds him strongly and stares him down, his voice commanding to try and cover up the underlying worry. Bucky swallows the taste of blood and takes a ragged breath in.

“Bucky, are you with me right now? I _need_ you to be with me right now!” Dean watches him worriedly.

Bucky nods in response and grimaces, forcing himself to meet the other man’s eyes. He forces his heartrate down and sets his feet under him once more.

“With you… with you, sorry…” His voice is cracked and slurred.

“Come on,” Dean throws Bucky’s arm over his shoulder again and begins to help walk the man to the open motel door.

The two of them stumble as Bucky forces his muscles to work. He grits his teeth and breathes sharply through his nose. He tries to keep his uninjured metal arm around Dean’s shoulders gentle, but finds himself relying more and more on the other man’s strength with each wavering step.

Sam fusses around the motel room quickly, throwing the newly acquired medical supplies on one of the beds after quickly taking off his jacket and wrapping gauze around his bicep. He rushes to the small bathroom to grab towels and cannot stop the moment’s pause when he sees the other two enter the room. Bucky is leaning heavily on his brother, all the color washed from his already pale face. His eyes are wide and searching, obviously used to analyzing rooms before entering but overwhelmed with the haze of blood loss. His posture is weak as he leans heavily to one side. The knife in his chest shifts slightly with his movements and breathing.

Sam’s eyes flicker up to Bucky’s mouth in fear and the expected thin trail of red makes his stomach lurch. Bucky meets Sam’s eyes and a new wave of recognition fills them. He tries to stand up on his own but fails and Dean exclaims, trying to catch him after the sudden movement.

“Sam, are you alright? You need stitches,” Bucky’s normally smooth voice is clipped and he winces as more red drips from the corner of his mouth.

His tongue prods out over his lips in confusion and he freezes when he tastes the blood. Sam can see the pain in his eyes, but it is overwhelmed with fear. Sam can relate to the panic, he is afraid for the man as well. Who knows how much blood he has lost by now?

“I’m fine Bucky, let’s just lay you down and patch you up.” Sam realizes he has lost Bucky once again as the man’s eyes glaze slightly and his posture stiffens.

He looks to his older brother with fear as Dean helps the former soldier down onto one of the beds.

“I-I just need a-a few minutes, promise...” Bucky nervously looks quickly between the two brothers and winces as he grabs the hilt of the knife keeping his wound shut.

Sam and Dean both exclaim and reach for his arms, trying to get him to release the weapon. Bucky shakes frightfully under their grips, his breathing fast between his parted lips. The fear hits a familiar point deep within his chest and he stops struggling under their tight grasps.

What else could he expect at this point? This whole night happened because he agreed to go with the two brothers.

Then Sam got hurt under his guard.

Not only that but he has rendered himself invalid.

Bucky becomes suddenly pliable in the brothers’ hands. His shoulders slump and he sinks further into his sitting position. Dean wonders how the hell this is not making the knife would hurt more, but pushes the thought aside. He thinks Bucky is losing to unconsciousness again when Sam’s hand suddenly shakes the man’s metal shoulder lightly.

“Bucky,” Sam says the name as an exclamation of worry and a question of fear.

The former soldier’s head is slumped in defeat, but Sam can see the rise of his chest. The man is not slipping away from awareness; he simply looks like he has come to some sort of acceptance. Dean throws him an annoyed look which makes Sam glare back in response. Dean’s eyebrows furrow in an expression that Sam would laugh at if the situation wasn’t so serious.

“Bucky,” Sam repeats worriedly, “Talk to me man, what’s-”

He cuts himself off as Bucky obediently raises his wrists up towards them, parallel and about six inches apart. His head remains turned down to his lap, causing his wild hair to cover parts of his face. Sam’s mouth gapes at a loss for words and he looks silently to Dean who shares the same stare of horror.

“Bucky _no_ man what the hell?” Dean is the first to find his voice and he moves quickly to kneel in front of the man, grabbing his raised forearms tightly, carefully avoiding restraining his offered wrists.

Bucky flinches slightly, releases a ragged exhale to force the tension from his arms, and sags even further into the mattress.

“I know... ‘m sorry,” He mutters in a voice so tired and defeated it makes both brothers wince in sympathy.

Sam puts a calming hand on Dean’s tense shoulder and kneels beside his brother. He looks Bucky over like he’s a scared animal, which might be a more true comparison than he would like to admit. The man’s torso starts to lean slightly as Bucks commands all of the fight to leave his body.

“Bucky, I need you to look at me. Get out of your head.” Sam’s voice is gentle but commanding; he knows there is no other way to get the scared man to respond.

Bucky takes another tired and uneven breath before slowly tilting his head up to meet Sam’s eyes. The utter acceptance in the man’s blank gaze and the tight lines of pain around his eyes instantly make Sam soften. Sam nods in encouragement and licks his lips nervously.

“What are you afraid of, that I’m hurt?” Sam asks and watches the man’s eyes for a response.

Bucky winces and his eyes automatically flicker to the gauze wrapping Sam’s arm and the red spot soaked through in the center before settling back on his lap.

“Buck, don’t go there.” Dean’s voice is softer now but still reverberates with strength. “You saved my ass tonight, and Sam’s.” Dean glances over to Sam who nods in agreement.

Bucky stares silently at the carpet, his is face blank and his lips forms a straight line as blood slowly trickles to his chin from the corner of his mouth with each struggling exhale. The complete obedience in the face of death the former soldier is expressing makes Dean bite his lip in thought of how to approach this.

“And I should thank you for that.” Dean adds seriously.

Bucky blinks quickly and his body suddenly jerks like he was slapped. His eyebrows come together and a new note of clarity shines in his eyes. He tries to recover from the startling comment but his head starts to spin. His mouth searches mutely for words he knows he is not allowed to say, let alone lead to a _question,_ as he looks between the two brothers quickly.

“Y-You…?” His chest tightens suddenly and he feels his face drop.

Dean lets the man move as his hand automatically goes to the side of his ribcage, pressing against the wound there around the knife. The two brothers are suddenly on their feet and swearing in a flurry of movement. Bucky tries to track them but his eyes are slow and hazy. The muscles in his abdomen contract again and he grits his teeth to stay silent. A rough cough crawls up his throat and he cannot hold it back this time.

Bucky coughs jaggedly into his free hand and he does not have to look to know there is blood on his palm. He tries to set his hand back on his jeans but another grip on his wrist makes him pause. He looks up fearfully at Dean who flips his palm up and angles it towards the light, causing the smear of red to stand out brightly against the silver metal. Dean swears under his breath and suddenly puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to ease the man to lay back.

Bucky suddenly begins to shake as his body convulses slightly. He grits his teeth and stares at the ceiling pulsing in and out of focus. The bed under him is surprisingly soft and the contradiction to an expected firm surface makes his head throb slightly more. He compliantly lays his hands by his sides, waiting for the straps to come, and releases a final exhale and allows his gaze to shift around the ceiling without focus.

Sam looks over as Bucky finally seems to mentally check out and he nods to Dean who is carefully cutting away the man’s ruined, blood-soaked shirt. Sam eyes the knife carefully and grabs the necessary whisky, towels, needles and thread. Dean throws the bloodied fabric and scissors to the floor and shifts to stand over Bucky’s ribcage. He throws Sam a tense look as his brother unscrews the bottle of alcohol before nodding. Dean gently grabs the handle of the knife, feeling Bucky automatically twitch under him, and rests his other hand on the man’s sternum. Bucky’s skin is hot to the touch and Dean just hopes that the guy doesn’t get an infection on top of all this.

“Alright, one, two,” Dean mutters and suddenly dislodges the weapon from Bucky’s ribs.

As soon as the blade is free Sam pours the whisky over the wound. Blood runs steadily from the deep cut as Bucky’s body arcs off the bed in response. His face is twisted in pain but he makes no sound as his lips are clamped shut tightly. His muscles spasm slightly and send his back bending off the mattress once more as his head thrashes to the side and air hisses like steam from a pipe through his nostrils.

“Breathe, Bucky.” Sam urges quietly as Dean begins stitching.

Bucky forces his eyes open and he looks towards the sound of Sam’s voice. His unfocused gaze settles on the man and Bucky grits his teeth against the pain. He coughs roughly behind clamped lips, making his chest lurch, and Dean swears as he pulls back from trying to place another stitch. Bucky’s chest heaves with his breathing and his head twitches in sympathy. His arms are shaking but he forces them to stay against the bed. He swallows roughly and makes his mouth open with a pained gasp.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry.” His head falls to the side and he blinks sluggishly.

“Just lay there and stop talking.” Dean replies in concentration as he returns his focus back to the man’s ribcage.

Bucky’s arms pressed into the mattress lift slightly in reaction to Sam beginning to work on his hip, but he forces his fists into the fabric once more. His nails dig into the skin of his right palm and leave red half-moons behind. He grits his teeth together and suppresses another cough, aware of Dean stitching his ribcage quickly.

“You are sure as hell lucky it missed your lung,” Dean mutters under his breath and squints as he shifts his angle to continue stitching.

Sam cuts away enough ruined fabric from Bucky’s hip to begin scoping out the wound. There is no exit mark, so the bullet must be buried in the flesh above the man’s bone. His face grimaces slightly in sympathy and he glances up at Bucky. The former soldier looks like he is about to hyperventilate and pass out but keeps jerking his head slightly and forcing his unfocused eyes around the room for random objects. There is tension from pain around the man’s glazed blue eyes and his jaw is clenched shut to stifle any noise.

Sam sighs and wishes the man would just pass out again so he would not have to experience the pain. He debates injecting the man again with some of the painkillers from the hospital, but he last did that when the former soldier was unconscious in the Impala and had no chance to fight back. Sam sighs deeply and pulls the chair from the table closer to the bedside, looking up at Bucky’s fading but focused face.

“Bucky, the bullet is still in your hip, I am going to have to do some digging. I know you don’t like them, but we have more painkillers I can give-”

“No,” His voice is a clipped gasp and his head shifts in a weak gesture of disproval. “No drugs, please...”

Sam sits back and sighs deeply once more. He glances over at Dean who shoots him a matching look of skepticism. Sam gives a hopeless shrug and reaches for the long medical tweezers from the borrowed med kit.

“Alright Bucky, if you say so,” Sam mutters and gets to work as gingerly as he can.

Bucky barely reacts when Sam begins digging for the bullet in his side. His eyes are rolling slightly and everything is blessedly numbing away. The light of the room is a dull yellow and his eyelids continually threaten to fall. His fists are clenched tightly and held down to the bed by invisible restraints. There is a faint sting in his chest and hip and a dull throbbing in his right shoulder, but all of the sensations feel just out of his reach. His head slowly starts to shift to the side as unconsciousness threatens to take over once more.

Bucky’s eyes flutter quickly and he jerks his head back into neural position to watch the shadows on the ceiling he doesn’t recall being there a few minutes ago. There is a new pressure near his hip and the air catches in his throat. He blinks a few more times and forces the vague presence of pain slightly into awareness, trying to keep himself awake.

Sam quickly extracts the bullet and gets to work closing the wound when he hears Bucky’s breath catch once more. Dean must have heard the same forced noise because he pauses from his deep stitch work on Bucky’s torso to glance at his brother. Both of them look at Bucky’s head shifting slightly as his eyes track the ceiling from corner to corner with no clear intent. The red staining the corner of his parted lips catches the muted light of the room with his subtle shifting and his clear blue eyes are glazed over and watering slightly. His eyelids are fluttering rapidly as the man forces his eyes from rolling back.

Sam throws Dean a look of concern and the older brother nods once in understanding. Sam cautiously starts his work on stitching the wound in the former soldier’s hip and listens intently to his brother’s words delivered in a low voice he recognizes as Dean’s failsafe when trying to be helpful but is worried.

“Buck, seriously just pass out. Even the best of us do it.” He adds in a soft voice with a quirk of his lips.

A low moan escapes Bucky’s head as he shifts again. Sam pauses and looks up at the man’s pained but quickly tiring face. It has been the only real noise out of the man either brother has heard so far, and most of the pain had passed already. Dean’s eyebrows meet and he tries to catch Bucky’s fluttering, tracking gaze with little success.

“Buck, hey look at me,” Dean places a hand gently on his uninjured and uncovered metal shoulder.

At the contact to the juncture of his skin Bucky automatically tenses and falls motionless. He swallows roughly and stares intently at the ceiling. His teeth grit together as his heartrate speeds up, causing an ill sweat to break out on his skin. Bucky forces himself to breathe through his tightening chest and feels the new pull of the unfinished stitches in the side of his torso. His senses rush into overdrive and he can feel his muscles shaking in an automatic flight response.

Bucky swallows down any other noise and shifts his metal arm to the side, offering the underside where all of the program plating can be reached. The hand on his shoulder is burning against his skin and he waits for the headset to return and knock him out to wipe him again.

Dean watches the instantaneous shift in Bucky’s behavior with wide eyes. He tries to call the man’s name but sees no recognition in his worryingly focused and exhausted eyes. When the metal arm shifts under his touch Dean immediately pulls away. Both brothers watch in horror as Bucky shifts to expose his arm to Dean and becomes eerily still besides the uncontrollable tense quiver of his muscles. The two of them make eye contact and Sam swallows nervously.

“What the hell did they do to him?” Dean asks in a hoarse voice.

Sam shakes his head in desperation, quickly recalling files and stories he had found and heard from Steve and others, but it was nothing like this. The two of them suddenly break eye contact when the croaky weak voice reaches their ears.

“Just do it,” Bucky stares at the ceiling, fear and forced acceptance in his eyes, “’m sorry.”

Sam is on his feet and leaning over the other man urgently. Bucky stares past him at the blank ceiling, visually tracing patterns that don’t exist and slowly giving into the darkness. Sam grabs the sides of his head and gives a small shake.

“Bucky look at me, we aren’t going to hurt you.” His voice is rushed but slightly trembling.

He gives another shake after seeing Bucky’s unresponsiveness. Bucky’s eyelids flutter and finally close. His lips move as he mutters something that sounds like Russian before finally falling still.

“Bucky?” Sam asks in fear.

He worriedly reaches for the man’s neck and feels his pulse. It is weak, but it is there. Sam gently lets go of Bucky’s head, letting it limply fall to the side, and collapses back into his chair with a deep sigh. His hand rubs over his mouth as he shakes his head at the unconscious man in front of him.

“Was that _Russian?”_ Dean asks quietly from the other side of the bed.

“I think so,” Sam nods numbly and slowly resumes his work patching up the wound in Bucky’s side.

Dean watches his brother moving automatically, the fear evident in his shocked eyes. He wills his own nervous heartbeat to calm down and steals a glance at Bucky’s now blank face. The lines of pain and fear are still faintly present in the unconscious man. Dean shakes his head in disbelief of how scared and obedient the former soldier acted and follows suit to continue stitching.

“At least he’s asleep.” Dean mutters.


	3. Another Mission

Bucky’s eyes flash open and all he sees is darkness painful to look at with a hazy remembrance of pain. It must have been another wipe, then.

He remains motionless against his body’s automatic response to want to jump up. He lets his eyes adjust and can slowly make out the moonlight coming through the small openings of the curtains hanging across the window. He assumes this is one story, so that is an escape route.

If it isn’t, he’ll take it anyways.

The next thing he is aware of is the silence. His own heartbeat sounds too loud. He picks up the breathing of two others, men by the sounds of it. He has woken up when a mission has been already set in motion, but this is ridiculous. The wipe must have been overdone this last time.

He slowly moves his feet and fingers, trying to reconnect to his body. The sudden pain almost makes him audibly gasp in reaction. He can feel three main points now.

Left hip, right shoulder, ribcage on the right, all… stitched and wrapped in gauze?

They must not have kept him under that long if he is already out in the field again. His weapons are gone. He is unarmed. Is he supposed to be undercover? That has never happened before…

Bucky’s mind reels with conflicting information and he has to pause to slow down his heartbeat once again. He will get nowhere by panicking now. The pressure against his back tells him this is a mattress he is laying on. Is he a hostage? His captors must know that any ransom for him would not be paid. Bucky slowly shifts his wrists and works his way up his arms in minute, silent motions. He meets no resistance. His right shoulder stings and his movements pull at surprisingly tender stitches, but no form of shackles prevents his motions. Not a hostage then?

Bucky releases another controlled sigh and shifts his legs to the side, feeling no restraints holding him back apart from fabric covering the lower half of his body. What is this, a blanket? He comes to the realization as his hands shift slightly to run along the quilt. His brain hurts and he silently slips from beneath the thick blanket. When he tries to sit up the air catches in his throat and he freezes, still intent to remain silent despite his lungs staining for air and tight with pain.

Bucky swallows down the rough sensation in the back of his throat and tries to get a better look of the room. He can see the silhouettes of two men, one on the bed across from him and another on a pull-out sofa across the small room. They are both sleeping and by their breathing patterns, seem truly at rest. Bucky’s eyebrows knit together in confusion.

Both are under blankets as well and through another silent sweep of the room have their jackets and boots taken off. There are weapons but they are on a table across the room, out of easy reach and looking more like they are lined up for cleaning rather than acting as an available resource. These men pose no immediate threat, which is unsettling in the pit of his stomach. He needs to get out of here now before either of them wake. Where is here anyways?

Bucky’s eyes catch on the logo of the notepad resting on the nightstand. It is a motel; an American, run-down, basic, out-of-the-way _motel._

What the hell kind of mission is this?

These men can’t be his targets. He would never be asleep in the same room as them if that was the case. Is he their target? He is weak right now. He can feel the strain in his muscles and the dizziness that must be from very recent blood loss and dehydration. But then why would he be alive? He already thought through and eliminated a hostage situation.

Bucky’s head is spinning faster and faster by the second. He needs to get out and figure out what is going on. He fluidly swings his legs over the bed gets to his feet. He almost falls as his hip gives out under his weight but he catches himself on the bed with a harsh exhale. He freezes, listening for any change in the room. Neither of the men’s breathing patterns as much as waver. Bucky forces a slow breath through his convulsing lungs and counts the heartbeats thudding rapidly in his ears. He takes a measured inhale and releases it just as carefully.

Bucky stands upright, one hand on the bed for balance, and takes another step forward. His left leg is weak and will take almost no pressure, but he can move well enough. The three wounds in his body flare up like blips on radar and he takes another controlled breath. The pain will only slow him down now. He carefully positions his right arm to bend around his torso and keep pressure on the deep would between his rips. Bucky feels like he is holding himself together as he shuffles without a sound across the carpet of the room.

His mind focuses on the plan to avoid dwelling on the sharp and constant pain shooting through his body.

Get a weapon. Get out. Find base. Hopefully stay conscious long enough.

Bucky’s eyes swipe over the few weapons on the table, realizing the others are tucked away in a canvas bag nestled against the wall. All that is easily at his disposal are knives and what looks like… salt?

What

The

_Hell_

Kind of mission is this?

He quickly looks over the blades and slips a smaller one into the back pocket of his jeans he now realizes are somewhat bloody. He frowns, pushing the unnecessary though away and grabbing another sharp and aerodynamic knife to hold. He glances at one of the jackets hanging on the chairs and slips it on, needing to hide his arm if he wants to get anywhere, and at the same time realizing his shirt is gone. He shakes his head in hopes to stop wasting time on these unimportant details of his situation. The sleeves are far too long for his arms but he rolls them up enough to use his hands and zips the fabric gently over his torso. He gives another shaking breath and carefully makes his way towards the front door.

Part of him already knows the door would be locked; he woke up in an unknown room with armed men, he is not an idiot. But he still has to try. The window is not too far either, but getting that open is a whole different story. He grabs the metal with the hand of his working arm, hoping that the metal-on-metal will not scrape too loudly.

The lock on the knob clicks undone and he pauses in surprise. He cautiously opens the door centimeter by centimeter and finds no resistance besides the natural stiffness of the old hinges. Bucky does not question his luck and slips outside as soon as the opening is large enough to squeeze through. He returns the door to its closed position silently and when he hears the confirming small click he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

His chest is tight and burns with every movement as he sags in slight relief. His wounds sting and the damaged side of his torso feels like it is on fire. He forces a breath through his system and resists the urge to cough. Bucky straightens himself up and remembers his plan. He is not done yet. Not even close.

He turns to face the almost-deserted parking lot. The asphalt is damp, hinting that it has rained recently. He glances up to see the thick clouds rolling over the night sky and muting some moonlight. He scans the lot quickly once more, seeing barely any cars parked under the dim light of the overhead old lamppost. A shiny black car slightly glistening from the recent rain makes him pause.

Bucky walks to it with a hitch in his normally swift movement but is able to do so silently, the pavement feeling damp and cold under his feet. His shoes are gone? He again forces the minor detail out of his awareness.

Bucky approaches the car hesitantly, something about it nagging at the back of his mind. Is this vehicle a part of his mission? It is not his; that much he can tell. But it plants an abnormal sense of familiarity and safety in the pit of his stomach. It makes him slightly nauseous. He tries to force this thought away as well but finds it almost impossible. He finally is able to tear his gaze from the front of the car and stealthily makes his way forward.

The glint out of the corner of his eye makes his freeze. Bucky slowly turns to face the side door of the same black car. Why is this thing so important? Slight scratches on the otherwise pristine car make him tilt his head slightly in thought. Bucky shifts the smooth hunting knife to his free, albeit weak, arm still holding his burning chest together to stroke the marks gently with his metal fingers. The slight ring of the contact brings a sharp flash of pain, confusion, green eyes, shouting, and panicking to his mind and he recoils as if bitten.

His fingers fit the marks perfectly and he stumbles farther away from the vehicle. Bucky grabs the knife once more in his left hand and shakes the jarring thought away. His breathing has picked up and a sickening feeling settles in his stomach. He exhales sharply and continues walking across the parking lot. The rough and cold pavement beneath his feet keeps his senses sharp and alert over the dull throbbing of his wounds. The ground is uneven and cracked from age and he stumbles once.

Bucky grits his teeth and forces his legs to balance him weakly as he continues onward, feet numb against the chilled asphalt, left leg protesting every move, and knife familiar and balanced in his grip. His eyes scan the lot around him once more and he focuses on the road ahead of him.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes with a jolt. The familiar gut feeling of something being off tugs at his stomach and rouses him. His fingers automatically curl around the gun kept under his pillow. He keeps his breathing even and opens the eye on the side of his face not pressed into the cushion beneath his head.

He hears Sam’s slight snoring, something he has been subconsciously trained to do. His forehead wrinkles in thought and he frowns slightly. Sam is here and safe if his breathing leads to any conclusions, but that pull at his stomach does not fade. Dean pushes his head up from the pillow and blinks in the darkness.

He glances at the clock to see it is only four in the morning. He frowns deeper and whips his head around towards the sound of the snoring and sees Sam tucked into the pull-out bed of the couch. He would laugh at the sight of his gigantic little brother’s body crammed onto such a small sleeping surface but the wrong feeling in his gut keeps him on edge. That feeling is one he has adapted for so long and has learned to trust.

Dean slowly shifts to sit up, clicking the safety off of his gun. He glances around again, the metal cool and familiar in his palm, and feels a wave of nausea when he sees the other bed. He quickly clicks the safety on once again and shoves the gun into the waistband of his jeans and jumps to his feet. The bed a few feet from his is empty, the covers thrown back to reveal the bloodstains and no sign of Bucky who just fell unconscious a few hours ago.

Dean swears and quickly throws his jacket and boots on, shaking Sam’s shoulder as he passes him. Sam bolts up and grabs Dean’s arm due to reflex. Dean starts to grin at the motion but quickly refocuses.

“Bucky is gone.” Dean says gravely and then Sam is on his feet, dressing and following his brother with concern etched on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have too much fun with Bucky's PTSD, I'm sorry. Thank you all so much for your feedback!


	4. Head East

Bucky shuffles forward unevenly as he trips slightly over another bump in the pavement. He finally makes his way out of the parking lot and squints at the sign across the road. He should be able to read it from this close of a distance, but the letters swim in his vision. He exhales angrily and clenches his teeth, trying to focus his eyes. The action makes his head sting so he sighs and turns right.

The road is a simple strip of asphalt that has a few potholes around the faded yellow paint in the center. Bucky walks awkwardly on the edge of the road, the knife in hand and hip protesting each step. His breathing has picked up and no amount of his controlled inhalation seems to be helping. The side of his chest is burning and the stitches feel like they are going to burst from the internal pressure.

He hugs the arm attached to his injured shoulder tighter to his body and hisses out into the cold air, causing the breath to form a small cloud in front of him. He shouldn’t be this cold, he faintly realizes.

He has to get out of here.

 

* * *

 

Dean runs out the door with Sam on his heels. He looks around frantically for any signs of struggle and finds none. The Impala sits in front of their room, alone except for two other cars in the entire lot. His eyes catch on the thin silver lines marking the door from Bucky’s fall that happened not even half a day ago and his stomach flips.

The sight of his baby scratched sparks a familiar flash of anger deep in his chest but it is quickly replaced with poisonous fear as he remembers why they are there. Would anyone want to capture the guy? Would anyone even _know_ he was with them?

“Dean,” Sam’s breathless voice shakes him from his internal moment and he looks away from the driver door.

Sam is standing a few yards away and facing the exit of the lot. He looks down at the pavement glittering from the rain and squats down to look closer at a different small pool reflecting dully from the overhead light. The reflection is not sparkling like the puddles of rain but muted, suggesting it is a thicker substance.

Dean leans down beside his brother, eyes narrowed at the liquid. He realizes with a sickening feeling that it is blood. He wipes a hand over his mouth and exhales shakily.

“Do you think someone took him?” Dean asks in a low voice.

Sam’s eyebrows twitch and pull together more. His eyes scan farther along the remaining half of the parking lot. His face suddenly drops as realization hits.

“No,” Sam mutters and looks to his brother in controlled fear.

Dean looks at him in confusion, letting his eyes flicker from the lot and road in front of them back to his brother and narrowing further. Sam’s tongue runs over his lips and he releases a strained breath into the cold night air.

“Was Bucky wearing shoes when we finally put him to bed?” Sam asks and looks at the pavement stretching to the road.

Dean’s heart skips a beat and he looks at the smear of blood on the concrete in horror, realizing now it is a footprint.

“Jesus,” Dean exhales in disbelief and visually traces the faint footprints of a rough trail.

“Come on,” Sam grabs his arm and pulls him towards the Impala, “He can’t have gotten far in the state he’s in.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky blinks sluggishly, his eyelids feeling abnormally heavy. The cold helps to numb some of his body to allow him to ignore the pain, but the dull throbbing is still present and distracting. The blade feels heavier than normal in his hand and his other palm twitches against his ribcage. The skin there feels almost damp but he is too cold to have any accurate sensations and he forces the thought away. His lips are trembling from the chill and parted to allow ghosts of breaths through.

He stumbles again on numb feet and takes a few rushed and uneven steps forward to catch himself. A low rumbling wakes him up a little more and he rapidly blinks away the fog creeping into his vision. The deep growling noise is painfully familiar and weakens his resolve. Bucky takes as deep a breath as his quivering chest will allow and refocuses on the road in front of him.

Twin beams of light dance on the road ahead and he automatically tenses, leading his pace to slow as a result. He grips the knife tightly in his hand and holds his other arm as securely to his body as he can, bristling slightly with expectancy.

 

* * *

 

Sam’s eyes scan quickly over the dark surroundings as Dean drives slow enough for them to search but fast enough to hopefully reach Bucky before anything happens to him. Well, anything _worse._

“There,” Sam suddenly gasps out and sits forward in his seat.

Dean swerves to the side of the road and pulls over, letting the headlights illuminate Bucky’s coiled frame. He throws his brother a look before shutting off his baby and swinging the door open. Dean closes the door slowly with a small thud and walks forward cautiously, seeing Sam’s warning stare.

“Hey Buck? Why don’t we head back man, its cold out here.” Dean tries to keep his tone even and light.

 

* * *

 

Bucky hears the engine turn off and the silence returns to burn in his ears. Two doors open and close, leading to two pairs of approaching footprints. They are too heavy and shuffled to be women, and he quickly judges them to be taller than him from their cadences. Their steps are not confident but hesitant.

The voice is familiar and makes him wince.

The nickname hurts more and makes him physically cringe and turn slightly to see the two men. He quickly sizes them up as the men from the motel room. A quick glance over their frames still muted by the dark tells him they are now both dressed fully and armed. So he is the target after all.

Bucky grips the knife tighter in his free hand and turns to face them fully. The shorter of the two, only by a few inches if that, approaches him with raised hands and a stance suggesting concern and pacification.

 

* * *

 

Dean watches Bucky as the man fully turns to face him. He looks horrible.

He has one of Sam’s jackets on over his naked and bandaged chest; the clothing is obviously far too large on him and is rolled up a ridiculous amount around the sleeves. His feet are also bare and bleeding but the man seems unfazed by this. His posture is tired and Dean can see the dark spot soaking through the light green jacket over where his arm is pressed too tightly against his still-fresh chest wound. What scares Dean the most is that even though he cannot fully see Bucky’s face in the muted moonlight, he can tell by the blankness of his posture that Bucky is not recognizing him.

The man seems physically hit after Dean speaks and the hunter immediately stops advancing, watching carefully.

Bucky hisses in air and stands his ground as the man approaches him, also keeping an eye on the other man to his left walking towards him. The closer man lowers his hands and Bucky automatically raises his stolen knife towards the man.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Bucky demands harshly.

Dean freezes and blinks in surprise. The knife pointed at him is one that he automatically realizes as his own. Normally with opponents as injured and weak as Bucky is, he would not be so nervous, but the fact that this is Bucky in front of him, specifically _armed,_ makes him wary.

“Buck, just listen alright? You saved me and Sam last night from those hunters at the bar, do you remember that?” Dean explains slowly.

Bucky shakes worse as the man calls him that name again. He knows it is his own, and not even his real name but a _nickname._

He said Sam. That name makes his head flare up. Sam, he knows a Sam.

He let a man named Sam get hurt.

He failed.

Bucky’s eyes flicker to the taller man to his left and widen slightly. This _is_ Sam approaching him with fear and concern.

Oh God.

He let Sam down, and now he is here to get rid of him. Bucky knew these were the rules when he was first sent out, but he never thought it would be like this. His mouth is suddenly dry and he returns his gaze to the slightly shorter man who is standing a few feet from him and waiting.

Bucky quickly looks over the man’s features and settles on the intense green gaze. Dean, he has a knife pointed at _Dean._ He staggers back a step and both brothers rush forward towards him until he holds his hand up in a pleading gesture for them to stop. The knife is loose in his fingers now as he tries to keep himself from swaying. Bucky recovers shakily and looks at them both in worry. He is not sure who it hurts to look at more. He takes a steadying breath and nods once as the memories come flashing back.

The fight last night, he hesitated and Sam got shot. Dean almost got killed. And then he passed out. They were nice enough to patch him up, probably because they did not want him dying out from simple blood loss.

No.

He was always told when your charge was hurt on a mission then they are rightfully entitled to hurt you back. It is a simple system. It is reciprocation. It is how it _works._

Bucky sighs painfully with his tight chest and stares down at the blade hanging loosely in his hand. He suddenly nods and fluidly flips the knife and grabs the blade end, the slight ring of metal hitting metal echoing down the old abandoned road. Bucky holds the knife out, hilt extended in offering. He looks between the two brothers, unsure of who would want to finish the job or if they were going to perhaps take turns.

Dean visibly relaxes and takes the knife from him. Bucky swallows down the fear rising in his throat and pries his damaged arm from his ribcage, allowing Dean any access he could want to the entirety of his target. Both of the brothers are suddenly relaxed and fussing over him, muttering to each other, and swearing at the blood soaking though the jacket from his partially torn stitches.

This is Sam’s jacket, he’s such an _idiot._ Of course they are angry.

Bucky watches Dean carefully. He knows that this is Dean’s right, but he cannot stop the fear from planting deep in his stomach and growing to wrap its vines around his heart and nerves. This almost hurts worse, knowing it would be Dean to be the one finishing it. Of course having Sam do it would be no better. That makes more sense in Bucky’s head, since Sam is the one who got hurt in the first place. But he has observed from the minute he laid eyes on them how protective Dean is of his younger brother.

He was wrong. It _does_ make more sense this way.

Dean quickly pockets the knife and Bucky tenses. He takes a step back and wants to keep withdrawing but forces himself to stop. Reciprocation, he doesn’t get to leave. Bucky clears his scorching and dry throat before forcing himself to exhale and stand as straight as he can. His hip strains from the tension of holding him upright but he grits his teeth and pushes through it.

He tries to meet Dean’s eyes, he honestly does, but he can’t. He looks to the pavement still lightly shining from the rain. Bucky focuses on the chill in the air and the fine mist clinging to his heated skin. The burning of his wounds is such a constant in his mind now that he can almost ignore it. His senses are dulled from fatigue but he can still gather enough information.

He needs to state facts. That always helps him refocus.

This road is old and abandoned. It probably will connect to a highway soon enough for his needs. It is dark enough to give him cover to get to a vehicle. He will head east. He needs to find some equipment to plug up these wounds that will not stop draining his blood. Of course he won’t be able to go back to the motel with the brothers. He has no real base to return to… but maybe that is why he is so calm all of a sudden.

Running has always been easier. Well, there is Steve of course, but this is different. He doesn’t have to go back there _right away._ He will head east. 

Bucky can feel himself bleeding from the side of his chest. Everything is muffled except for his thoughts, his whole head becoming another world, one he can function in.

But he _does_ have to pay for his mistakes. Being a soldier has taught him that much. He does not want the guilt of an ill relationship with these people who took him in hanging over his head along with everything else he still has to carry as baggage. No, this he can do right.

Penance… that is something he is good at.

And then he will head east.

Bucky looks up to meet Sam’s wide hazel eyes, the rest of the world looking blurred in contrast. The hunter’s mouth is moving but Bucky cannot hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears and the white noise of blood loss. He gives the ghost of a smile and looks over to Dean who is almost red in the face now. Bucky can see the clear signs of distress, but not hearing any other verbal cues is numbingly pleasant for some strange reason. If he can clear this fault between the three of them, then he knows he could leave the brothers in peace.

And then he can head east.

Bucky nods his head slightly at his own conclusion and lets his eyes fall to the knife tucked away in Dean’s belt. His arms are weak by his sides and he can feel his blood slowly seeping through the bandage around his chest. He really likes the Winchesters. They have been good to him in the time he has known them. He sees the dedication and promise in both men. He is proud to have known them and been able to fight by their side, even if his presence was a setback.

“You two… should know first…” Bucky is muttering through shaky lips before he can stop himself.

He cannot hear his voice, it sounds like he is speaking through a wall, “That I am thankful for what you’ve done for me. And I understand. I wish you both the best.”

A weight almost feels lifted from his shoulders and he raggedly sighs. Bucky pulls himself as upright as possible and forces all signs of distress and pain from his face. He sluggishly meets Dean’s eyes, barely seeing anything but the outline of the man’s face and the fogged color green, and lets the corner of his mouth lift slightly.

“Go ahead,” Bucky is whispering into what sounds like a tunnel, which would help explain why his vision is going black around the edges. He feels impact and numbly lets himself fall into it as his eyes finally close and he stumbles into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this was choppy, I really wanted the contrasting POV's. Bucky is hurting and I'm sorry. Let me know if you want more and I can continue with the bros' POV of the end scene :)


	5. Puppet-master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this picks up with the last scene of ch.4 from the bros' POV, I hope it's not too confusing :)

Dean’s heart is pounding in his chest when Bucky back-steps, watching the blade disappear away into the waistband of his jeans. Both of them try to reach for the exhausted man once more but Bucky warily signals for them to stop. Dean looks to his brother, also keeping Bucky in the corner of his eye.

The former soldier has the posture of a man who will drop any second, Dean can read the signs. Bucky sways slightly with each breath as his muscles compete with one another for balance and continue to fail. The dark red blood staining the side of Bucky’s torso through Sam’s jacket makes him even warier. The man has lost enough blood in the past six hours to make Dean wonder how he is even conscious.

Even though it is dark out, Dean can see the sickly pale color of Bucky’s skin. His hands are by his sides, the right one trembling lightly, and he practically presents himself to the two brothers. Dean has seen this behavior before, and it is scaring the crap out of him. He knows what Bucky must want. He can see it in the cold blue eyes that hold a deeper level of intent and reasoning.

That is what puzzles Dean, how focused Bucky’s gaze is. Every other detail about the man suggests he should be dropping like a fly at any moment so the two of them can take him back to the motel and get him patched up again. Dean can see the processing in Bucky’s eyes, how clear of a solution this must be to the man. And it is something that scares Dean more than any demon or monster he could face. The sinking, bitter feeling in his stomach is not simply because this is his friend staring at him.

No, when _anyone_ gives him that look of desperation and self-hatred it makes his heart drop. Dean has seen that same look in Sam’s eyes too many times.

He has been talking for what feels like minutes now but Bucky is not paying attention anymore, perhaps he is out of energy to. Or perhaps he just does not want to hear the calming words Dean has to offer. Dean has been in this position before as well, seeing someone he cares about struggling with their own inner demons and looking like they want a final way out rather than options to choose from.

Sam glances at Dean, interjecting gently when his older brother’s nervous rambling becomes too hostile. It has always been easier for Dean to grab someone’s attention in scenarios like this and shake them out of their daze so Sam can talk them down, but Bucky seems too far gone. The former soldier is not even looking at Dean, but letting his eyes tiredly fall to the pavement.

Sam sees the tinge of pain and regret in the man’s surprisingly intense eyes. It makes him wary and sympathetic, and he wants to take another step closer to the hurt man. As soon as he shifts forward Bucky’s eyes snap up to meet his. There is a new note of finality in them that makes Sam’s heart stop for a second. What sends shivers down the hunter’s spine is the faint smile that pulls at Bucky’s mouth.

Sam has seen the former soldier smile a few times in honest joy, like the night before at the bar, but it is nothing like this. The laughter and smirks from the previous night when Bucky appeared to be genuinely relaxed happily animated all of his facial features. It pulled at Sam’s heartstrings to think that the expression was likely common on Bucky, the World War II Soldier who acted as a brother and a fighter.

This small smile now ghosting the man’s lips is an entirely different expression. This is a look of acceptance and closure. Sam watches the change in Bucky’s crystal blue gaze as the man seems to reconnect to the present situation and looks no longer afraid but instead remorseful. He appears to be almost content, but in the bittersweet way you would expect after ending a visit with an old friend. The connection makes Sam’s mouth dry and his posture stiffen slightly. That is _exactly_ what that small tilt of the mouth means.

Bucky looks to Dean who is still repeating his name in between every sentence to try and break through this haze of exhaustion and trauma, finally making eye contact. When the hunter sees the faint grin on Bucky’s lips his eyebrows furrow and his tongue slows.

Sam licks his lips nervously and extends a hand out towards Bucky gently, like he automatically wants to reach for the man but knows better than to interrupt him while he has the energy to speak. The former soldier’s eyes fall once more to Dean’s waist where the knife is tucked away and his stomach drops to his feet.

Dean is about to continue in his automatic stream of words when Bucky inhales weakly and suddenly speaks faintly. He can see Bucky’s body struggling to stay upright while his eyes are slowly losing their light but hanging on to this shred of clarity.

“You two… should know first…” Dean looks to Sam in confusion and they cautiously stare at each other, wondering what Bucky could possibly be prefacing here.

“That I am thankful for what you’ve done for me.” Sam’s eyes flash over to Bucky and the air catches in his throat, sometimes he hates when he is right.

“And I understand.” The knife suddenly feels heavier tucked into Dean’s waistband and freezing cold against his skin, he should have known from the way Bucky kept glancing at the weapon that he interpreted this situation as Dean taking control.

“I wish you both the best.” Bucky’s body is suddenly weaker.

The shred of resolve in his eyes breaks and he audibly exhales in a tired rattle of breath. The small smile still pulls at his lips. The man’s hip is failing and Dean can see Bucky slowly pitching forward. Dean reacts without thinking and rushes forward to grab Bucky before he falls.

Sam is automatically with him and grabbing the former soldier’s other shoulder in an effort to get some pressure off of the man’s steadily bleeding torso. The brothers try to manhandle Bucky to avoid contacting his wounds but with the relief of air that leaves Bucky’s parted lips, the former soldier becomes limp in their arms.

“Bucky? _Bucky,”_ Dean grounds out the name between grit teeth and tries to keep his arm wrapped around the man under his shoulders.

Sam suddenly shifts to hold the front of his own jacket covering the other man and shakes him gently but intently, also barking out the former soldier’s name in the most authoritative voice he can. Bucky’s head bobs forward until his chin rests against his chest. Sam quickly feels for a pulse and after a second of forcing himself to hold steady finds a weak fluttering beneath his fingertips.

“He’s out cold and bleeding. We have to get him back.” Sam speaks with more command than questioning and straightens up to hoist one of Bucky’s arms over his shoulders.

Dean nods in agreement and mirrors Sam until the former soldier is hanging between them like a puppet cut from its strings. He glances up to see the Impala only a few feet away and grits his teeth to begin matching his brother’s step to return Bucky to the car.

“I know his system will just burn through them but right now, honestly, I don’t care if he hates it, I’m pumping him with enough painkillers to knock out a horse.” Sam hisses out between steps as he hangs onto Bucky tighter.

Dean scoffs once hollowly and shakes his head slightly. It was the only plan they had right now to keep the former soldier from waking up too soon again and hurting himself even _more._ How the injured man managed to regain consciousness, let alone _walk,_ so soon in the first place is beyond him. The thought makes Dean swallow instinctively at the lump rising in his throat. The cold knife nips and burns Dean’s skin in a mocking bite as he helps position Bucky in the backseat and he has to tuck it away in his jacket with a clenched jaw to keep his head from spinning. He is unable to completely shake the notion as he turns the Impala to life.

Bucky handed him this knife to use against him. The look of total acceptance and willingness in the man’s tired eyes is seared into his brain. The idea gnaws at the back of his mind as he turns the wheel and feels the knife shift to press against his side, waiting readily to be used.

That was Bucky’s original intent anyways.

 

* * *

 

The two brothers try to lay down the unconscious man as gently as possible. While the former soldier is shorter than both of them, maneuvering his limp form is a hassle and Sam feels a pang of sympathy shoot through him every time Bucky automatically inhales sharply as his wounds are jostled. They finally get Bucky completely arranged against the mattress that Sam hastily stripped the bloodstained sheets from and threw a blanket over a few moments ago.

The two brothers exhale a tired sigh and straighten up to look over the unconscious man. Dean shakes his head lightly and again wonders how Bucky even managed to climb back into awareness. All of the man’s muscles are limp but lines of pain pull at the corners of his eyes. The blood soaking through the bandage wrapped around his chest sends Dean into motion automatically as he grabs the chair from the night before to sit by the bed.

He carefully peels Sam’s jacket completely away from the man’s torso, hating the instinctive jolt that runs through Bucky’s body from the pain. Dean works with careful, nimble fingers to undo the bandage to get a better look at his own stitches underneath. The wound is red and inflamed from the pressure and friction of Bucky’s arm rubbing the wound, leaving some of the stitches broken. Dean sighs worriedly through his nose and carefully clears the remaining gauze and jacket away from the area.

Sam wordlessly hands him a pair of scissors and sets the stitching kit on the nightstand. Dean glances up at his brother to see the same look of pity and concern in his puppy dog eyes. Dean wants to make a crack about his younger brother’s wide gaze, or about how the Sasquatch will need to get a new jacket from a lumberjack warehouse, or _anything_ else to break this trained silence, but cannot bring himself to.

“I’ll get his feet.” Sam instead offers gently and goes to retrieve some more supplies from the black hospital bag they acquired the night before.

Dean nods and carefully goes to work on cleaning and re-stitching the wound.

Sam grabs his own chair barely set aside from previous use and sits by the foot of the bed. He grimaces in sympathy and looks over Bucky’s bleeding soles. He grabs tweezers, seeing some gravel and other debris stuck there and silently begins working. He hardly touches the man when Bucky’s head shifts and he lets out a low keeling noise.

Dean pauses and his eyes flash up to the unconscious man’s face instantly. The former soldier’s eyes are squeezed shut and ragged air escapes his slightly parted lips. Dean gets to his feet and reaches his hand to feel the former soldier’s forehead. He barely has to touch the other man’s skin to feel the heat radiating there.

“He is burning up,” Dean sighs in worried anger and glances back at his brother who has also shifted to stand beside him.

Dean glances around the room before his eyes settle on the black medical bag by the couch. He nods his head in that direction, his other hand automatically shifting to check Bucky’s pulse.

“Hey Sam, could you grab-” Dean jumps when his fingers hit their mark on the man’s neck and Bucky suddenly gasps, his body tensing all over and eyes flashing open.

Dean curses and pulls back, partly from the heat peeling off the man in waves but mostly from the sudden life seizing Bucky’s muscles.

 

* * *

 

It is a lot darker outside than Bucky remembers. His internal clock hardwired to accuracy tells him it is approaching dawn rather than dusk. The pain washes over him like a wave of lava. It scorches his skin and claws its way deep into his bones. At first it feels like it is everywhere, but then he can slowly pinpoint it to around three major areas.

Left hip… right shoulder… his brain is so working so slow it is infuriating… ribcage on the right…

There is something else too… He can’t quite place it this time but there is an added dull throb from his feet, was he not wearing shoes? He was walking… wasn’t he?

A low rumble escapes his chest. A miserable keening noise reaches his ears. He is outside after all, right? It must be an animal. He should keep walking. But his feet sting and the all of the numbness is fading. He wants it back. Bucky never thought he would be asking for cold again in his life.

It is too hot all over. There is no more soothing chilled pavement underneath him anymore. No, his center of gravity is completely shifted. He is not upright at all. Bucky can feel a mattress beneath him. A mattress, not a table, he notes pointedly.

He has been here before, he can feel it.

Beyond this trapped cloud of hot air he is suffocating in he can feel two other presences in the room. This too is familiar. Why can’t he just remember for once? There is something about this that makes him feel safe for some bizarre reason deep in his stomach and he needs to extinguish it so he can regain his senses. This is ridiculous; he is just laying here like bait.

There is a buzzing presence brushing his forehead, setting his nerves on alert. Dammit, this is what happens when he lets himself feel safe. He can barely function with his body tensing and ablaze, let alone get his mind to follow just one track of thought. Something about heading east sounds familiar. But familiar is bad right now.

There is pressure on his neck, against his jugular. This is bad. This is _so_ bad. He needs to get out _now._

Bucky’s eyes fly open and his mouth gasps for air. Everything is too hot, it’s burning. His muscles try to work and collectively tense and fail. No matter how hard his mind trips over commands and tries to resurface from drowning in fire his body will not obey him anymore.

This is worse, _so much_ worse.

His body won’t work for him.

But it is too hot to be freezing. He expects the blistering cold that usually takes him over in times like this. The ice finally means he could sleep. But now he is on fire. This has never happened before and it is bad. Bucky doesn’t know how to make it stop. His body tries to fight for him. He didn’t tell it to do that. He is losing to himself again. His muscles are straining to work and then there is pressure on his limbs. He instinctively jerks and frees one arm.

Bucky automatically raises it to try and defend himself but a new fire explodes in his shoulder and it drops weakly beside him. That was his _right_ shoulder. They have never touched that one. They always are taking his left one to pull apart and prod.

This is all so wrong it makes him shake. He is deaf to the world and his eyes are blind. They trace shadows on a ceiling and a face that feels familiar but he could not place it right now for the life of him. His heart is drumming like a piston in his chest and making the rest of him overheat. There is too much fire for him to deal with. His ears are rushing with blood and flame and there is nothing he can do about it.

His back leaves the mattress and he is upright once more. It provides to be much worse than he had hoped. The blood drains from his face and biting ashes rest under the skin of his cheeks and forehead. He senses that he is being moved and tries to get on his feet but the command fizzes out against his frayed nerves along the way.

He can’t move.

He wishes he was laying down again, at least there he could feel the presence of his body instead of being mentally shoved into this cloud of hot air and fog. He has been unaware of his actions before, but that was different. Even in those times when his mind was attached to strings, his puppet master let him feel his body and use it like a weapon.

Now the strings are cut and a sick longing makes him wish there was someone, _something,_ there to make him move. It would be better than being conscious of his useless state and not being able to do anything about it except burn.

Then everything stops.

It is cold. It is _freezing_ actually. He can’t breathe, but he doesn’t need to. It is finally cold and he feels like he is floating. The chill nips at all of his skin and he can feel it. He can’t move, but he doesn’t need to. He can feel his body again and that is all that he needs.

The strings are reattaching his brain to his muscles and he feels aware of himself once more. This is _him_ controlling his body. He never thought he would be wishing for the cold. The fire is dimmed to a low throbbing now. His nerves are reeling from the drastic temperature change, but he can feel that too and it is great. The cold envelops him and he can finally focus on the darkness instead of the pulsing red.

He can sleep.

 

* * *

 

Bucky is tensing and shivering on the mattress and Dean barely has time to think before the man’s arm moves. Dean is about to grab for the man’s injured limb when it drops back down to the bed. Dean leans over Bucky to try and meet his wide gaze. The man’s eyes are clouded and have that film covering them once more that tells Dean the man is in another world again.

Dean is about to yell at his brother over his shoulder to run and get ice when Bucky’s body seizes.

Sam is almost to the door, knowing they need an ice bath to lower Bucky’s temperature before his brother even asks, when he hears the thump of Bucky’s body as he arcs and falls against the mattress. The younger Winchester runs back to the bed and looks to Dean before grabbing the man’s shins.

Dean grabs Bucky’s arms, feeling them trying to engage and failing to do so from fatigue under his grasp. The man’s skin is hot to the touch and Dean hopes this wave of jerking will end soon so they can get his temperature down and help him fight the infection.

Just as suddenly as his body tenses, Bucky goes limp and he pants in air.

His eyes search the ceiling blindly and Dean hesitantly lets him go, keeping a steadying hand on the man’s sternum.

“Sam, get some ice.” Dean’s voice is too strained to yell so it comes out more as a steely command.

Sam is on his feet in an instant and rushing out the motel door with the ice bucket under his arm and a key in his hand.

Dean looks over Bucky’s exhausted form, seeing the random tremors rushing through it like he is riding out aftershocks of being electrocuted. He runs a hand over his mouth, subconsciously satisfying the nervous habit, and shakes his head lightly.

“Dammit Buck, you have to stop fighting this.” He mutters, trying to sound as soothing as possible.

Bucky is trembling underneath his hand against the man's chest and his skin is too hot. Dean does not even have to find a thermometer to know that the man is overheating. His muscles weakly clench, almost like an afterthought, and Dean bristles in preparation before relaxing and seeing Bucky fall limp once more.

Sam rushes back into the room and goes straight to the small bathroom, plugging the tub and dumping the ice in while twisting the faucet on. His fingers numb and redden slightly as he submerges his hands to spread the ice out. When he withdraws he quickly wipes his hands on his jeans to try and get some blood flowing again. It was definitely cold enough. The bathtub itself is still chilled from the natural winter cold filling the motel.

Sam quickly shuts off the water and grabs towels to set on the sink. It works better if he lets his hands act in the trained way he is familiar with so he can focus on that rather than the man burning up in the next room over.

Dean grabs Bucky’s arm again when the man stiffens and immediately he shies away from the touch with a grimace. Dean bites the inside of his cheek and exhales worriedly, glancing up just in time to see Sam emerging from the bathroom.

“I thought you gave him enough painkillers for a horse.” Dean mutters without humor.

Sam glances up at his brother before mirroring his actions to grab underneath one of Bucky’s shoulders. Together the two of them hoist the feverish man upright and maneuver him so they can carry him.

“I did.” Sam grunts and grabs Bucky’s arm tighter as they make their way into the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all the support and feedback, it really does help :D


	6. Safe

The cold is everywhere and he has been here before and he needs to wake up _now._ There is a deep throb in his chest. He can feel his limbs almost floating in this freezing cold and it is disorienting. Last time he woke up, he was burning at the stake, and now he is buried in a snowstorm.

Bucky’s lips part slightly and faint breaths of air bubble from his mouth.

Bubbles.

He is _underwater?_ Not even just in water, this is _ice_ water. It’s cold. It’s freezing. This is where he gets stored. This is where Steve…

He needs to get out of here. His chest is straining and deflating like a punctured balloon. All of his nerves are sparking like live wires and his fingers are starting to numb. At least he can feel them now. His eyes hurt from strain and are prickling from the chill. The cold is biting at his lips and the soles of his feet. He can barely move, the water feels constricting like syrup but it is too icy to be comfortably immobile.

But something about it is strangely calm. He feels like he is floating in an almost dreamlike state. His senses are muted and don’t have to work for him. There is nothing to see behind his closed eyelids besides darkness. There is nothing to smell as his body automatically pushes air through his nostrils to keep the water out. There is nothing to hear besides the faint tinkling of ice floating somewhere above him and the constant rush of blood accompanied by his own slowing heartbeat.

He has control. He can probably get up if he wants to. His chest is starting to strain and send a new ache through him. His lungs are not expanding. He is not moving at all actually. He can move if he wants to. The cold is familiar. Somewhere along his broken train of thought he remembers that familiar is not that bad right now.

The darkness behind his eyelids is starting to fuzz into an odd gray. His chest automatically contracts and ice water floods his mouth. Bucky’s body tenses against the intrusion and he can feel his muscles working for him. He pushes his head up out of the icy water, gasping in air and spitting out ice. As soon as the oxygen hits his lungs, everything is thrown back into overdrive.

His senses are buzzing as cold needles shoot along his throat and into his chest. When his body automatically tenses he can feel his confinement and it is too claustrophobic, too familiar in a bad way. His hands scramble for purchase against the side of the tub. His wet fingers and smooth metal slip on the old porcelain and he feels his heartrate picking up again, trying to flood adrenaline through his body so he can function.

Two pairs of new hands reach under his shoulders to help support him, but he can barely feel them against his numb skin. His brain is tripping into overdrive. His muscles are shaking and jolting like he is under a live wire. His lips are parted to pull air in like a dying man. He somehow mentally finds his feet that still submerged, numbed so he can actually use them, under his body weight and pushes the hands off of him. He can move his arms. The right one hurts deep in the shoulder but the burn is numbed and suppressed.

Everything is numbed away. It is familiar in a way that he does not like. But slowly all of his nerves are clawing back into awareness, which is not a great alternative.

Bucky stands shakily, his muscles reflexively tensing and releasing to keep him balanced. His eyes are cloudy but he can make out shapes and colors. He looks quickly around the small room he is in. It is a bathroom, a very small and poor quality bathroom, but a bathroom nonetheless. The overhead lights make him squint as his eyes begin to pick out lines and angles as they adjust.

His bare feet are chilled, but enough so to give him a frozen base to stand up on. He vaguely remembers walking on stone cold pavement where he could feel pressure and tension pressing into his skin, so this is an improvement, albeit a small one. He can vaguely sense the other two presences in the room. His nerves are buzzing with tension and hyperaware.

Something about the other two people slows the rush of nervous adrenaline through his chilled veins. His panting slows down and the loud thrumming of his heartbeat begins to quiet. He can hear his own ragged inhales but also faintly a low voice. It is vaguely soothing and almost trying too hard to be comforting.

Bucky’s gaze searches slowly before hitting a new shape and color, making him stop. He squints slightly to get his strained eyes to piece together hues and angles and finally sees familiar green eyes. His gaze shifts up and to the side and another concerned face housing wide hazel eyes stares at him. His brain trips over memories, but he can remember them this time…

The ice water still clinging to his skin heightens the already spreading automatic warning response waves across his frayed nerves, urging him to run, but he can push the urge down now.

“Sam… Dean…” Bucky slowly looks between them both as a sudden smile pulls at his lips.

The fighting adrenaline is slowly draining from his tired muscles, making him automatically reach back to support his weight against the wall with his uninjured arm. The metal is freezing and feels better away from his naked torso. Hands reach for him to support him but Bucky grabs one of the arms with his weakened hand to signal them to stop.

His eyes travel up the arm to see the gauze wrapped around the bicep. Bucky frowns slightly and continues tracking his gaze upward to see Sam’s worried stare.

Oh.

He is not done here.

The memories from the past twenty-four hours break through the frozen haze trapping his mind and he automatically inhales deeply despite his clenching chest. Keeping the one hand on Sam for support, he slowly leans forward to remove his other from the wall and shift to reach for Dean. His eyes flicker over the absence of the man’s jacket and he taps his fingers against the man’s torso, patting him down for the knife.

Honestly, this was dragging on long enough. How many times would he have to be put under and brought back again before the brothers finally went through with it? He knows this is unprofessional, that he should be taking what they give him, but maybe he just needs to urge them in the right direction so this can finally be over.

Strong, warm hands suddenly grab his cold wrist and tighten enough to not be painful but almost comforting. Bucky’s eyes flicker up to Dean’s concerned and focused gaze and he can feel the vibrations of the man’s low, intense voice through his body. He looks to the man’s mouth and tries to lip-read with clouded eyes.

“Bucky, we aren’t going to hurt you.” Dean says strongly, searching the man’s tired and visibly shaken face and holding his freezing metal arm.

Bucky’s eyes are focused on his lips and a look of confusion reaches them. Dean’s words seem to send a new wave of misunderstanding through the former soldier’s pale blue gaze and the man shakes his head slightly. His lips are starting to turn light blue to match and part to stumble for words.

“W-Why…?” The ragged question makes Dean’s heart twist painfully in his chest and the look of pure confusion in Bucky’s eyes when they meet his makes his mouth dry.

Sam feels Bucky starting to tremble as his fingers quiver around the hunter’s forearm. Sam’s heart breaks for the man and he can sense the same sinking feeling in his brother. Sam knows Dean would never admit to having feelings and has shut down verbally so it is his turn to take the reign in this. That is how it has always been.

Sam grabs Bucky’s forearm with his free hand and squeezes lightly to get this attention. When the fluttering, exhausted and confused blue eyes meet his, Sam watches the former soldier intently.

“Because you’re our friend.”

 

* * *

 

Dean sits on the second bed, legs out to the side and feet scuffing the carpet to try and break the thick silence in the room. He runs a hand over his mouth nervously and looks over Bucky’s sleeping form once more. His eyes tick over to his brother leaning on the arm of the small motel sofa.

Sam’s arms are crossed over his chest, letting him absentmindedly pick at the new dressing Dean wrapped around his bicep. He does not glance over at his brother’s imploring gaze, stuck in his own head as he watches Bucky’s random twitches.

The former soldier has been unconscious for a few hours now. Sam and Dean took turns sleeping and then going to get food, doing enough to keep them both on their feet, but as soon as the intense painkillers started wearing off Bucky became restless. Sam is not sure which alternative he prefers, Bucky stone-cold knocked out or Bucky twitching in a fitful unconsciousness.

The two brothers fell into this wary silence ever since it started.

As if to prove a point, Bucky’s muscles sporadically tense and relax again as his head jerks faintly. His fingers clench and form a fist and Sam is about to shift his weight to stand but then the other man relaxes one more. Sam sighs through his nose and eases back against the arm of the couch. Sam has no idea what the best course of action is here. He and Dean contemplated giving him more painkillers, but the guy has to wake up sometime and he has settled enough that they can treat his wounds. The next thought after deciding to let the man crawl back into consciousness was if they should restrain him so he could not escape in another panic attack and get hurt even further.

Both quickly agreed it was not a smart choice given the circumstances.

So they are keeping watch, waiting for the man to resurface and question his surroundings all over again. Sam finds it difficult to leave Bucky’s side, knowing the fear and confusion the man keeps facing when he wakes up somewhere unfamiliar from a whole different realm of haunting memories. Bucky’s face scrunches up and he jerks until his cheek rolls against the mattress once more. The instinctive bristling shoots in a wave through the rest of his body and Sam watches the discomfort pinch around Bucky’s closed eyes.

Nightmare.

Dean has seen the signs enough time to know that the former soldier is mentally locked away somewhere. He just hopes that after getting more rest, not exactly _adequate,_ but enough, that the man will be a little more lucid this time around. Dean wishes the man will wake soon so he can question him about what the _hell_ kind of a stunt he tried to pull was, but at the same time does not want to face the man’s devastating confusion again. The hunter sighs once more and leans back against the headboard of the bed. The guy seemed so confused and Dean had no idea how to get it through his head that they have no drive or desire to hurt him.

After Sam’s “friend” statement Bucky went almost comatose. His already pale face went white and Dean couldn’t quite read the look in the glassy blue eyes. It was something between relief and disbelief, like he wanted to accept the friendship between them but knew better. How willing the man was to just let Dean have his way and be done with him sends an uncomfortable shiver down the older brother’s spine. Bucky thinks he is expendable. He was probably trained to think that way. God, he hates dealing with all of these feelings and crap.

“What now, Sammy?” Dean asks gently, as if afraid to break the tense silence.

Sam snaps out of his dazing and looks over at his brother. The younger hunter exhales deeply and sits up a little straighter on the couch. He crosses his arms tighter and nods once in thought.

“We get him up, and we talk to him. No running. No yelling. Just talking,” Sam bites his lower lip and shakes his head at the unconscious man fighting invisible foes.

Sam looks over to his older brother and sees the worry in the man’s emerald eyes. He is sure that this must be hard for Dean to see. He knows that his brother has had to talk him down when he went running with the devil in his head calling the shots. But a new spark of hope flickers in his chest as he remembers that Dean got to him and helped. Dean was stone number one and it worked.

Sam looks between Bucky and Dean once more before nodding again, this time feeling a little more faithful. Now it is just a waiting game.

 

* * *

 

As per usual, Dean decides that the waiting game needs to involve alcohol. The two brothers were sick of staring at the wallpaper peel from the aging motel walls and decided to give Bucky a little space.

Now the two of them each have their respective beers and are sitting on the couch that they shoved to sit at an angle so they can see Bucky as well as the television. They try to relax and sit but both of them are tense enough to send nervous waves of vibrating electricity thrumming through the air.

Dean sighs and takes another drink of his beer, unconsciously glancing over at Bucky again. While he went for a beer run, Sam said that the former soldier made no further progress than random twitches and body jolts. His fever was practically gone and he was getting some color back into his face, but the underlying signs of pain remain etched around his eyes and mouth.

The two brothers make small conversation, mostly to avoid the quiet, but stay hushed enough to hear any other sounds Bucky could make. Sam is about to open his mouth to try and make a light but jesting comment on Dean’s choice of programming when a sharp gasp and serious of ragged coughs grab their attention.

Bucky broke through the veil of inky black sub-consciousness silently. That much he could still do with his trained senses. His body is comfortably numb and he can sense the medicated high tumbling through his bloodstream. His eyes open to slits and he can see the dull lights of the motel room around him. He can sense the chill in the air and the angles of shadows on the ceiling tell him it must be nighttime again. The cold centered deep and radiating in his bones is uncomfortable in comparison to the warm clothes he is wearing and mattress he is laying on.

He faintly remembers being helped out of the icy tub and into these fresh clothes before Sam injected him with something and he passed out again. He has been fainting far too often lately for his liking. It is more disorienting than being simply wiped over and over. After being unconscious he does not have a clean slate and list of objectives but rather muddled memories that he has to try and figure out and place in the correct sequence.

He remembers the ice bath. He remembers the freezing bite of the water against his skin. He remembers the two brothers, who he can faintly hear now along with what must be some kind of radio or television chatter indistinctly in the background. He remembers them holding him up. He remembers the hunting knife. He remembers trying to get Dean to use it already.

The knife Dean didn’t have on his person.

He is still in debt.

Bucky opens his eyes all the way and rolls onto his side before he can sit and stew in his thoughts any longer, silently gritting his teeth and using his good arm to push himself into seated position. He tries to blink away the fog creeping into his vision and traces the room and all of its old quirks silently before settling on Dean’s jacket thrown on the other bed. The knife is in there, he can see the hilt sticking out from the pocket.

Bucky gathers his thoughts enough to focus on this one objective and grips the edge of the mattress tightly. He swallows the strain itching in his throat and fluidly shifts forward onto his feet. The carpet stings his bandaged soles and immediately his other wounds flare up like fireworks.

He cannot hold back the pained gasp and resulting groan as he weakly collapses back into a sitting position. Before he can free another cough from his scratchy lungs both brothers are there. He feels the mattress dip as Sam sits beside him, still giving him a respectable amount of space to catch his breath. Bucky cannot bring himself to look at the younger Winchester and after his eyelids flutter a few times his gaze settles on Dean squatting down on his haunches in front of him. Bucky finds it almost humbling that Dean would take this position that allows Bucky to be seated taller than him, and feels the same sense from Sam beside him whose large frame is tucked in slightly to make him appear smaller. They are trying to compensate and comfort.

…For him.

Bucky’s brain hurts and he shakes his head once, trying to clear the haze in his mind. They owe him nothing. In the checks and balances system engraved in Bucky’s programming they are in the clear. They are _beyond_ in the clear, he owes them. Why can’t they figure this out? It is becoming too exhausting.

Bucky sighs, letting his automatically tense shoulders drop and his posture deflate further. His breathing is back to tight inhales but at least they are silent.

“We won’t make you lay down again if you don’t want to, but you’ve got to take it easy right now, alright?” Dean’s voice shatters the fog in his head.

Bucky’s eyes flicker to Dean and he almost recoils from the intensity there. The hunter’s gaze immediately softens some and Bucky can sense the supportive and concerned energy coming from the man. Dean stares solely at the former soldier, seeing the struggle in his face. His blue eyes are wide and questioning but his lips are firmly pressed together. The man doesn’t think he gets to talk. Dean opens his mouth again but hesitates when he catches Sam’s warning, pointed look.

Easy, Winchester, nice and easy…

“How are you feeling, Buck?” Dean asks with as level a tone as he can manage.

Bucky blinks blankly at him for a second, almost like he cannot understand the interest Dean is showing in him.

“Why are you helping me?” Bucky’s voice sounds like sandpaper and rust.

Dean sighs and leans back slightly on his heels, keeping his gaze focused on the man in front of him. He can see Bucky fighting to stay composed and resigned but it is failing. Dean mentally chooses his words before speaking again.

“You are hurt, Buck.” Dean pauses when he sees the recognition in the man’s eyes.

He is hurt. Of course he is hurt, he is damaged goods now. That is why they are fixing him up. They must need him again. Another mission is probably waiting and they can’t have him slowing them down again. He already let Sam-

“And when friends get hurt, they patch each other up.” Dean’s cautious voice sends his racing thoughts to a crashing halt.

There was that word again. Friend, Steve uses it a lot. He says sometimes they are even brothers. Sam and Dean are brothers too. But he is not a brother to them. He couldn’t be.

Dean watches Bucky carefully as the man seems to be undergoing some inner mental crisis and revelation. He quickly looks to Sam who is studying the former soldier with just as much thought. He meets his brother’s eyes and silently pleads for him to add something. He knows Sammy is much better than him at all of this heart-to-heart stuff.

“You are our friend, Bucky, not just a soldier. And that means a lot.” Sam adds quietly.

Dean notes his brother’s puppy-dog eyes are on full blast.

“But I owe you.” Bucky mutters blankly.

Dean’s eyebrows furrow in confusion and he shifts to lean closer to Bucky. Sam automatically does the same but stops when Bucky looks over at him. The pale blue eyes are lost in a daze so drilled into the man it is all he knows. Sam purses his lips slightly and takes a deep breath.

“You don’t owe me anything, Bucky.” He replies in the same calm voice.

It is Bucky this time who narrows his eyes in confusion. His gaze flickers down to the dressing wrapped around Sam’s upper arm and he shakes his head slightly. A new flash of emotion burns across his eyes; something Sam at first almost sees as anger but quickly realizes it as desperation.

“Yes, I do. I let you get hurt,” Bucky’s eyes, now focused with a new mission and his brain back on familiar territory, shift to look past Dean at the jacket on the other bed, “…and now you get to hurt me.”

Dean watches Sam’s face pale and feels his doing the same. No. There is now way the man could be that brainwashed to consider himself just as a tool for use. As Dean continues watching Bucky’s pained movements as the weakened man tries to stand, eyes directed on the knife Dean realizes is behind him in the pocket of his jacket, he realizes that his previous thought is more correct than he would ever want to be.

“Bucky, sit down.” Dean commands in a low voice, feeling the authoritative tone adapted from his father slipping into his speech.

Bucky does not look away from the weapon but opens his mouth, mentally battling himself to talk back or obey. Each of his muscles seems to relax one at a time to keep him seated on the mattress. His eyes become glassier and Dean can see the desperation there.

“I-I just want it… want it to be over.” He stutters out.

Dean exhales like he hit a wall and leans back to get to his feet, knees popping as he stands. Sam is sitting dumbstruck by the former soldier’s vicious reasoning. Dean glances between the two men on the bed before sitting on the mattress opposite them. Dean’s lips tighten into a thin line and turns slightly to stare at the hunting knife peeking out of his jacket pocket. He swallows tightly and grabs the hilt of the weapon, holding it firmly in both hands, before turning to sit on the bed and face the other two.

“Dean,” Sam warns quietly, eyeing the knife with suppressed alarm and wariness.

Dean ignores his brothers cautioning voice and stays focused solely on Bucky. The former soldier’s eyes are glued to the knife sitting heavily in his hands. The man’s blue irises are glazed slightly with a mix of acceptance and fear.

“This is what you want, right?” Dean asks evenly, his voice slipped into that lower register he has used to get his brother’s mind back on the straight and narrow too many times.

He holds the knife up on display in one hand, eyebrow raised. Sam is gripping the mattress, knuckles white. What the _hell_ kind of game is his brother trying to play? But there is an air of concern and alert under the control plastered on his older brother’s face, and it makes him relax a fraction.

Bucky follows the movement of Dean’s hand to stare at the knife for a moment. He swallows down the rough lump in his throat and respectfully drops his head to stare at the old faded carpet.

“Haven’t you gotten hurt enough already, Buck?” Dean asks seriously, letting the knife drop back into his lap, fingers curled loosely around the hilt.

Bucky’s eyes snap up at that. He sees the authority covering up the fear in Dean’s eyes. Bucky shakes his head slightly.

“Not by you.” He mutters in a small voice.

“And why in the _world_ would I want to hurt you?” Dean’s voice is starting to rise and he grits his teeth to force himself to remain sitting.

Bucky stares at Dean with such a focused and calculating look it makes Dean almost want to fidget to avoid the pure intensity. Bucky clenches his jaw and forces himself to exhale and relax it. He is getting too tired to have this hanging over his head anymore.

“Because it is your right to do so,” Bucky starts and has to take a shaking, steadying breath after seeing Dean’s face drop before continuing, “The minute those other men walked into the alleyway with us, you two became my responsibility. He threatened your _life,_ Dean, and I was there. And if we are what you keep telling me we are, then you became my charge and so did your brother.” Bucky’s eyes flicker to Sam beside him, briefly registering the shock before looking back to Dean.

“And then I let him get shot-”

“Bucky, you didn’t let me-” Sam interrupts pleadingly but is cut off just as quickly.

“I hesitated.” Bucky spits the words out coldly and shifts his eyes to look at the ground somewhere in the distance splitting the two brothers.

His jaw clenches and his fingers curl into shaking fists that rest on his thighs.

“I hesitated and let you get hurt. It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Bucky’s eyes snap up once more to Dean’s, “You watch over your brother and I let both of you down. That is on my head. And you have the knife.”

Dean matches Bucky’s stare, feeling blown back by all of the information the man just laid out. Dean can see the fear in Bucky’s eyes being crushed and locked away by the trained intensity of this role as a living weapon he has had to play. Dean suddenly shakes his head and puts the knife on the nightstand. He sits back and watches the conflicting waves of emotion struggle in Bucky’s eyes. Dean can see the relief there, the hope that maybe he will be forgiven, the fear that this is just another trick, the frustration that Dean will not act the way his former owners did.

“I’m not going to hurt you Bucky.” Dean shakes his head once and stares at the man with honest green eyes.

“You are not a weapon anymore. Do you hear me?” Bucky swallows and glances at the knife on the small table before dropping his eyes to the ground.

“Bucky, look at me, I need you to _really_ look at me right now.” Dean continues and urges, his voice low and authoritative but Sam can pick out the concern in his tone.

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut for a second before inhaling shakily and looking up to meet the hunter’s focused eyes.

“You don’t owe me anything. You don’t owe _Sam_ anything. Do you understand that?” Dean watches the other man shift uncomfortably and look away once more.

 _“Dammit_ Bucky why are-” Dean sighs to get his voice level once more and runs a hand over his mouth to regain himself, “Why are you putting our safety over yours, our _lives_ over yours?”

Bucky scoffs hollowly and Dean shifts to stare at the man in confusion. Bucky shakes his head once and slowly meets Dean’s gaze, his eyes hollow and haunted.

“Because yours are worth something.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth is tilted up in what may have been intended as a smile but ends up looking like a grimace. Dean watches him carefully, feeling his stomach swirl and twist with fear and nausea. His lips part to say something but he cannot manage anything besides a shaky breath. Bucky shakes his head again and swallows down the rising lump in his dry throat.

“I’m a weapon, Dean.” His voice cracks slightly and he feels his eyes getting tight and stinging. “I’m a just a body for programming. You and Sam, you two are-are…”

He trails off and licks his lips nervously; shaking his head more and making his wild hair fall around his face.

“People.” Dean says plainly, “Just like you.”

Bucky actually laughs once, a sad and dejected sound that does not reach his desperate eyes.

“No, no, I’m not human anymore. I’m this-this _puppet_ and you two, you two are here to keep people safe. I’m _designed to kill,_ Dean. I-I  _hurt_ people. You two are hunters. You two _save_ people… and put an end to things like me.”

Bucky reaches over to the knife with his uninjured metal arm that peeks out from the long sleeves of his borrowed sweatshirt. He flips it to grab the blade and the ring of the metal-on-metal contact pierces the room. Bucky holds the weapon out to Dean, hilt extended.

“So put an end to it.”

The silence that falls on the room feels like it could shatter at any moment. Both of the brothers are frozen to the spot, disbelieving of what they just heard. Dean breaks the stillness and slowly reaches out to take the knife from Bucky’s extended hand. Sam watches silently, afraid to break the fragile air of the moment and voice muted from shock. Dean looks away from Bucky to the blade in his hand. It almost burns his skin and feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. He takes a steadying breath and grips the weapon tightly in one hand. Dean suddenly grabs the edge of the blade with his other and runs his fingers across the metal. He hisses slightly as he feels his palm cut open before setting the knife aside once more and looking up to see Bucky’s panicking eyes. Dean raises his bleeding palm up in a display before setting it on his thigh.

He can see there is only one angle to play here and he will milk it until it dies.

“If we are playing the game you are proposing here, then I’ve let hundreds of people down, you included. I can play the blame game _all night,_ Bucky. You almost died because of me. Hell, Sam _has_ died because of me. But I can’t do a damn thing about it.”

Dean’s eyes are icy and focused and he can see Bucky’s brainwashed composure starting to fail.

“But what I can do is be a big brother. I can get up in the morning and try my damnedest to protect who I can. I’m not your owner, your superior, or your commander, Bucky. But I am your friend. And if you are a weapon, then I am too.”

Bucky stares at Dean with wide eyes, lips parted slightly in shock. His mouth trips over unspoken words and he swallows roughly. He blinks and forces himself to look away.

“I-I’m sorry.” Bucky mutters and shakes his head once more.

Dean can see he has finally broken Bucky’s engraved determination for compensation and relaxes more. Sam finally feels like he can breathe and looks over at his brother with a proud glimmer in his eyes, exhaling in relief and nodding slightly. Dean meets his gaze and mentally hands his brother the baton.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Bucky.” Sam watches Dean as he says it before smiling lightly and turning to face the other man.

“Everybody is fine now, and you don’t owe us anything, alright?”

Sam searches Bucky’s bright blue eyes and is put at ease with the faint look of appreciation beneath the shock. Bucky slowly nods and blinks a few times. His chest feels like it suddenly opened up and he is floating with weightless shoulders. His head is spinning slightly but he cannot push away the dizzying feeling of relief washing over him. He feels almost peaceful. He feels… safe.

“Glad to have you back, Buck.” Dean comments after seeing the new vibrant look in the man’s eyes as he gets to his feet and tries to walk off the serious tension he was just carrying. He did it. He did emotions.

Dean smiles internally and stretches to put the hunting knife away from view in the weapons bag and grab for his beer, also trying to grab Sam’s with the free fingers of his one working hand. His other palm is still oozing blood and after handing his brother his bottle he looks down at it and sighs. Dean takes a drink of his own beer and frowns down at the cut, it was too deep to just bandage.

“Well, almost fine. Sammy, I need you to get the stitch kit.” Dean’s voice is no longer low and commanding but light and easy, normal and relaxed with alcohol soothing his throat.

Sam takes a drink and nods as he swallows, getting to his feet and feeling like he could float from how suddenly light his body seems.

“I could do them.” Bucky’s soft voice makes both brothers pause.

Dean looks over at Bucky who has shifted slightly to look down at his relaxed hands in his lap. At the silence he glances up between the two brothers before giving a small smirk. His face is holding a completely new light and it dissipates the remaining tension in the room instantly.

“Army training was good for something.” Bucky’s voice is no longer monotonous but simply honest and offering with a hint of attitude seeping out from wherever he had to mentally lock it away.

The two brothers stare at the former soldier in slight awe for a moment. A small grin spreads on Sam’s lips and Dean raises his eyebrows with a challenging smile.

“Sure,” Dean replies and grabs the stich kit after taking one last drink of his beer.

Dean can feel the new energy rolling off of Bucky. He can see the faint wariness in the man’s muscles, but it is surrendering to the new ease he is feeling. Dean sighs and sits on the mattress next to Bucky, letting the man gently take his fingers and wrist in trained hands and flipping his palm up to analyze the wound further.

He can’t believe Dean would trust him like this, or that he managed to offer it up in the first place, but now it feels… safe. It's the only word he can think of. He feels useful, but not because he needs to be. He wants to be.

Dean sighs and feels the rest of the anxiety leave his tense shoulders as he watches Bucky work with a trained care and accuracy.

“Sammy always messes them up anyways,” Dean comments lowly and leans in towards Bucky to make it seem like he is divulging a secret.

Dean is not sure which response makes him happier, the sound of Sam’s sudden loud and thundering laugh or Bucky’s small smile that he fights at first but finally lets curl the corner of his mouth up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it friends! Thank you all for reading and sorry this got really long and maybe kind of sappy. I just have too many Bucky feels and wanted him to feel at least a little happy.


End file.
